CollaterHell
by ProjectXii1
Summary: Mortis is a mysterious assassin from Hell. A new employer enlists his services, and collateral events ensue. As he delves deeper into the World of Sanctuary, he finds more about himself, creation, and the higher purpose he may yet serve...
1. Contract 1 Part 1

**CollaterHell **

Contract 1 - Priest of the Rogue Citadel

"5 million gold. Right here, up front. I can offer double that upon completion of the job."

Mortis studied the little man offering the trunk full of gold before him. Black suit, slicked back hair, a nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth and bright blue eyes that took in every detail. It had been a while since anyone had required his 'special skills', and this man seemed almost too eager.

"How is it that you can offer me that much money?" he inquired in a voice that betrayed nothing but general curiosity. "Not even the Sultans of Lut Gholein would be so quick to give a sum like that."

The little man smiled slyly and wrung his hands.

"My... employers also believe it is a generous amount. But the task is not an easy one. It will take a creature of your cunning and abilities to manage it." He paused and gestured to the large membranous wings protruding from Mortis' back. "I think you'll find those invaluable."

Mortis instinctively folded his wings closer to his body; he always got uncomfortable when people mentioned them. But there was no denying what he was, and he never tried.

The little mans eyes glinted mysteriously, as if he enjoyed the fact that he could unnerve an assassin such as Mortis - despite the obvious physical danger.

"Will you accept?"

Mortis leaned forward, his light blue skin looking a shade darker in the lantern light. His sharp, feline-like nails dug into the desk between them.  
"What's there to stop me from simply taking the gold and your life right now?"

An uneasy silence filled the small room, broken by the sudden creak of crossbows being loaded. Glinting bolt heads appeared through the cracks of the curtains and the door behind him. The small man stared at him calmly.  
"Your employment being terminated earlier then desired, and my employers being -very- displeased."

The silence continued for a few more moments, then Mortis relaxed his grip on the desk. Deep gouges in the wood revealed what his hands could do when only slightly riled. His hard expression changed to a casual smirk.  
"I'm glad to hear it. You'd be surprised how many of my previous contractors pissed themselves when I said that. Weak fools." He spat.

The little man smiled.  
"I'll take that as acceptance." He extended his hand, "My name is Braca. Welcome to the first assignment."

* * *

Mortis closed the door to the tavern's back room carefully behind him. A wave of warm air mixed with the smoke of random narcotic herbs washed over him. The main bar was filled with drunkards and potheads, wasting away their lives or running from problems they were to weak too fight.

Mortis didn't have time for the likes of them. He tucked his wings in close and headed for the door. Something smacked into his legs hard and grunted.

The midget carrying a tray of drinks stumbled a bit, regained his balance and then stared at the kneecaps in front of him. His eyes slowly worked their way up to the barely human looking face, and he gulped.

"D-d-do you wan' sumtink?" he stammered?

Mortis stared down at him silently, his golden eyes glowing.  
"No. Thank you" he said at last. The midget shrugged and waddled off towards a pot smoker in the corner.

Mortis scanned the tavern one last time and strode to the exit. A thin layer of sleet crept under the crack in the doorway, melting into a pool when it met the tavern's heat. He braced himself for the icy chill he was about to meet, and opened the door.

The howling gale whipped into the tavern for the three seconds it took for Mortis to get outside and slam the door behind him. Then he was out in the blizzard, struggling to see a few feet in front of him. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, his keen senses picked up the sounds of snow crunching underfoot. Someone was coming towards the tavern. He shielded his eyes, squinted, and a vague outline came into view.

The hooded figure stumbled slowly up to him, a rusty sword dragging deeply in the snow behind. He appeared to be focused on the ground, heading straight for the tavern door. Mortis made to move out of the way... and froze. He caught a whiff of something. Something familiar. Something he'd smelt before in the depths of Hell, long, long ago. He wanted to run, to fly, to get as far away as he could, but he couldn't will his body to do anything.

Slowly the figure approached the door, still appearing to have not noticed Mortis. His hand reached for the handle... and he too froze. After what felt like an eternity, the hooded head turned Mortis's way.

He saw a human face; a man. Haggard and deeply troubled. A closed wound in his forehead festered and bubbled with infection. But the eyes - windows to within - revealed what lurked inside this fast fading husk. An evil so ancient Mortis dared not move nor say a word.

The stranger started to speak, but before he could he went into a violent spasm. He doubled over and clawed at his face, making guttural noises and shaking wildly. When he at last rose again, he was something different. The eyes burned with unearthly fire, and the mouth gaped wide open. He gazed blankly at Mortis, head lolled to one side.

"So, Son of Hell, you sought refuge in the world of Man?" The voice was deep and growling, and definitely not human. It simply rolled out of the man's open mouth, over an unmoving tongue and lips.

Mortis felt the terror rising inside him, not knowing if it was his own doing or if the creature before him was instilling it. He opened his own mouth but succeeded only in gulping like a drowned fish.

The corners of the man's lips curved into an open mouthed grin, and his eyes darkened.  
"Fear not, traitor to your brethren, I am not here to deal upon you the justice you deserve." His head slowly lolled to the other side as he continued to speak. "Soon the Three will be reunited, and the worlds of Man and Hell combined. It will be your own kind that takes their revenge, not I."

With a start the man's head snapped upright, the possession twisting his features gone for the time being. He merely stared at Mortis sadly, nodding in greeting, and entered through the taverns door.

Mortis stood in the freezing blizzard, thoughts churning furiously through his mind. But as the terror faded and was replaced by his usual calm demur, he pushed them aside and resolved to think about it later. Whatever the Lords of Hell were plotting, he wanted no part of it. He was free, and would never be chained again.

'Besides,' he thought, 'I have an assignment to concentrate on.'

Spreading his wings wide, he easily caught the howling winds and sailed swiftly into the night.

* * *

He was still flying when the sun crept lazily over the horizon, warming his ice whipped face and frost covered wings. As he gazed down at the lush green meadows and thick forests of Khanduras, he felt the numbness seep from his mind and body, and finally, he allowed himself to think. 

The stranger at the tavern; he was one of the Three. Diablo, Lord of Terror, had somehow escaped his fate of being sealed in the soulstone, and was roaming the lands free once more.

Mortis shivered, despite the now hot sunlight, at the thought of meeting his old Lord. It had been so long; so long since he'd left Hell and met any real demons in this land of Mortals. Yet he remembered it well.

* * *

He remembered the moment - the very second - Izual's sword had struck him during the battle for Hellforge. He remembered how the power surging through that mystical blade, Azurewrath, had severed the connection between his mind and that of the Lords; the puppet-masters, the greater wills pushing all demons into a blind, suicidal frenzy. 

Things had become instantly clear. Rational thinking, reason, self-preservation - these thoughts had been kept at bay by the minds of his controllers. Now he saw clearly, he alone. The weight of such free thinking brought him to his knees, confused and bleeding from his wound. His Balrog brethren still fought blindly around him, falling under Angel swords, and Izual himself once more raised Azurewrath to finish the kill.

The desire to fight had all but fled, and so Mortis fled with it. Escaped from the executioner's sword and ran for all his worth. The battle had raged all around him between demons and the forces of heaven, and he wildly dodged through the fray, wishing only not to die. When he at last stopped, he was on the furthest most reaches of Hell, staring out over a gaping black abyss.

He'd sat there huddled, on the edge of the world, coming to terms with his newfound mind. Days, possibly weeks passed. He couldn't be sure, as Hell was forever cast in an eerie twilight. At last, a comrade in arms - and once close friend - had stumbled across him.

"Why did you flee?" his once-ally had asked accusingly.

Mortis merely rocked, arms cradling his knees, and stared up with confused eyes.  
"I'm free" he mumbled. "I am no longer a pawn to the Lord's eternal will."

"The Lord's will is the will of us all!" came the booming reply.

"Not mine any longer," he whispered back.

The opposing Balrog drew his sword from its sheath and stepped forward, fire blazing from his nostrils.  
"Such blasphemy. Such _emotion_. You've become no better then the _humans_!" He raised his sword high.

"I should kill you now, you weak, pathetic vermin."

The two remained motionless, locked in a time free state... and then the sword came down. With a crash it struck the stone at Mortis's feet and disintegrated. The Balrog snorted heavily, fire blazing in his eyes now as well.

"But I won't," he said, tossing away the useless hilt of his sword. "I am a Balrog, just like you. I enjoy the thrill of the hunt." He bared his teeth viciously.

"Now flee, traitor" he continued, "Do what you do best. But know that I will find you. I or one of the other survivors. And when we do..." he nodded towards the silvery remains of his shattered sword, "There will be no mercy."

And once again, Mortis had fled. Not just from the Lords and demons he had once fought beside, but from the whole of Hell. Remembering his comrades' words, he managed to locate and fight his way through one of the few portals leading to Sanctuary, the world of Men. He knew in his heart that he would find even less acceptance there then he would now in Hell, but at that point in time he had no other choice...

* * *

He snapped alert again as he realised he'd been gliding dangerously low. A wide wall of treetops was rushing to meet him, and he purposely pulled up at the last second, savouring the rush of adrenaline. In the distance, high above the trees and all else, rose the peaked and domed roofs of the Rogue Citadel. It was an impressive structure, well maintained and crafted to perfection, Mortis noticed. 

On either side of the main building stretched the Great Stone Wall, which divided the lands and travelled for miles in each direction. The only method of entry - massive wooden doorways complete with metal spikes and a steel bar to hold the handles - sat embedded in the walls to the right of the Citadel.

Mortis slowed his descent and landed gently not far from the main entrance. He crouched in the shadows of the woods around him, and surveyed the area. Guards at the doors. Guards on the walls. All women, and all armed with very well crafted bows. He flinched as a carrion bird passed over the wall and was brought down with a single well aimed shot.

Closing his eyes, Mortis concentrated on the summoning spell and called in the contract details Braca had given him. The words were bold, heavy print, so no mistake could be made on what they said:

_"Assignment 1 - Priest of the Rogue Citadel _

There is only one man welcome to live in the home of the Sisters of the Sightless Eye. The priest, known as 'Brother Brent', has been there many years, providing spiritual enlightenment and blessings at all the occasions that require them. He was once, by all standards, a noble and holy man.

But over the years, unbeknownst to everyone in the Citadel, Brent became old, demented, and open to corruption. He resented the way his body was becoming frail and weak, and his prayers slowly turned to that of the Lords of Hell. He begged of them eternal life, and in return he would make the Rogues weak so that when the Day of Redemption came, the forces of Hell could take Khanduras with little or no interference from the Sisters of the Sightless Eye.

The Lords granted him his request by imbuing him with an aura that would drain the life and soul from all those around him. He has been doing this for years now; feeding off the essence of these women to sustain himself. Soon they will be too weak to defend their lands.

Your orders: find a way into the Citadel's Cathedral - undetected - and slay Brother Brent. If you are seen, the Sisters will sound the alarm and Brent will flee deep into the Catacombs; a veritable maze of corridors and burial rooms that spans an unknown amount of levels. If this happens, he will be beyond even your reach.

The life of every single woman in that Citadel rests with you. Their lives are being stolen to feed an evil and belligerent man, and it is highly likely their souls will be forced down into a place you know all to well, to be tortured by creatures you once called brethren.

Do not fail. My employers demand it.

Braca"

Mortis studied the signature for a second, then scrunched the paper up and vanished it. His orders were clear; the Priest would die for his sins. It was also clear that any kind of assault on the Citadel would have to be attempted at night.

Resigning himself to that fact, he flapped lightly up to an over-hanging branch. Settling into a roosting position, he wrapped his large wings around his body, let out a deep sigh, and relaxed. Before long, his mind drifted into the misty netherworld of sleep. And he dreamed.


	2. Contract 1 Part 2

He dreamed of the hardest time in his life; the first two years after he came through the portal. Running. Hiding. And learning the hard way how the laws of Sanctuary differed to the laws of Heaven and Hell.

In Hell, the air was always warm and suspended in an eternal twilight. Food and water were not required to sustain life; although many demons took pleasure in feasting on the blood and flesh of new cursed victims, no nutrition was derived from it. Hell's minions never suffered from thirst or hunger, never needed sleep, and never faltered under muscle fatigue. They could fight relentlessly until their body was rendered incapable by an enemy's weapon; such were the Laws of Hell.

In Sanctuary, Mortis found himself facing every mortal element. The weather changed constantly, alternating between a bright time that was both warm and blinding, to a dark time that was very similar to Hell. Both times had glowing orbs in the sky, the dark time one more to Mortis' liking. It radiated a soft glow that illuminated the land with silvery beams. He travelled mostly under this orb, as the other burned his blue skin and made him squint.

Sometimes water fell from the sky, cold and wet, and other times it combined with howling wind and ice. He hid from it the first few times, fearing it's cold and the strange slippery feeling it left on his skin. Like blood, only clear. His mind could not comprehend where this liquid fell from.

Aside from coming to terms with what he later learned was "day and night", "sun and moon" and "rain and snow", he also had to face strange needs occurring in his body.

"Hunger and thirst" were things he learned from watching the birds and bests roaming around him. Water didn't exist in Hell, the closest thing being bubbling tar or the Lava River. By following animal example, he discovered not all water was safe to drink.  
Streams were good, they ran fast and clear. Puddles and dams were not; they were murky and riddled with parasites. Though a demon could stomach almost anything, being host to a gut-full of these creatures could cause severe discomfort and pain. Not to mention unpleasant toiletry experiences.

He was forced to watch his body physically 'de-evolve'. He lost his enormously broad chest, and perfectly toned muscles. In Hell, it was easy to maintain such a physique, but in Sanctuary doing so would take half a ton of raw nutrition and enough exercise to consume most of the daylight hours. Mortis could only despair as his once powerful figure shrank, almost to that of an ordinary human.

Almost, but not quite.  
He was still abnormally strong, and far taller then any human he met. And the surprising agility that came with this leaner form he found to be a necessity when hunting out in the wilds where he roamed.

Hunting also required new skills. In Hell, victims were forced to flee over flat, barren land with few places to run and even fewer places to hide. The demons could track them down at their leisure.  
In Sanctuary, the landscape played an all too important part in the hunting routine. Trees, rocks, grass, burrows, hills: anything that could be used as cover was taken advantage of by the prey he sort. Mortis simply did not have the experience needed to hunt for himself.

So once again he followed packs of animals, picking on the remains of their kills. Over time he became more confident, and joined in on the hunt.

He always chuckled at the look on eagles' faces as he glided beside them.

The day he made his first independent kill was a great one. He revelled in it, gorged himself to the seams. And then became acquainted with another mortal trait.  
Vomit was definitely not something demons, or at least Mortis's kindS, were used to. He'd panicked, believing his insides were now on the outside.

But he found that to be untruthful. Upon closer inspection, he realised it was merely the flesh of the beast he'd consumed, and he resolved that next time he'd eat slower, eat less and perhaps chew his food.

Oh yes, those two years had been a harsh time. He had lived with the wild things because, as he expected, any human he came in contact with fled in terror. He was as lost in this world as he was in his own.  
But then he met a man who hadn't fled. A crafty, suave old man, highly skilled in many things. He had taken Mortis into his home, and taught him how to survive. Mortis would one day refer to this man as 'the Teacher'.

* * *

A cricket chirping in his ear roused him from his slumber. The dream faded quickly, for which he was grateful. They weren't the most pleasant memories.

Flicking the cricket from his shoulder, he unfolded his wings and saw that, once again, it was dark. The great domed entrance of the Citadel glowed slightly from within, and he could still see guards pacing in the torch light. Entry was going to be a challenge, but not impossible.

In one swift motion he leapt from the branch, hit the ground and bounded back into the air. To his disappointment he discovered there wasn't a breath of wind, so he was forced to beat his wings heavily to get appropriate lift. Although a fair distance from the Rogues, the sound still travelled to them, but it merely sounded like a flock of bats to their ears.

Reaching a height he thought would attract the least attention, he began to glide slowly over the massive Monastery.  
The domed main entrance opened into a three pronged cloister, which then led onto what could only be a barracks. Even at night the women were continuing their vigorous training routines; firing a constant barrage of arrows at distant scarecrows tied to poles. It made him uneasy to see all the arrows in the heart or head locations.

Mortis glided on further, identifying what appeared to be the roof of a prison, but from the small size of it he gathered most of the building was situated underground. Another cloister separated that, the mess hall, and the very location he was looking for; the great spiralled peak of the Cathedral.

He floated quietly towards the roof, wondering exactly how to go about his entry, but at the last second curiosity got the better of him and he changed course towards the mess hall instead. He landed softly and peered about. A number of wide windows allowed viewing inside, and he silently paced up to one.

Pressing his hands carefully against the glass, he gazed down on the rows of tables below. The room was illuminated by large chandeliers and candles, and although he couldn't make out the words a steady murmur was coming from the happily eating women. They sat in small groups, dipping bread into soup, or chewing well cooked meat from the bone. The occasional laugh told him they were carefree and completely oblivious to the evil that lurked just across the cloister from them.

''Monster', thought Mortis. These women were so strong, yet so innocent in their faith. He ground his teeth as his eyes swept over the sea of feminine faces. And so young, some of them. Would they die before their time because of a priest's greed?

He suddenly realised his nails were digging too hard into the glass, and hairline fractures were beginning to appear. Turning from the window, he crouched, and with one mighty leap, cleared the inner cloister completely. He landed on the roof of the Cathedral with a thump, and almost staggered as the frail tiles shattered to dust under his weight.

''At least I didn't smash completely through' he thought with relief.

Carefully he stalked the outside of the roof, searching for a window or maintenance hatch, and annoyingly found neither. The stained glass windows on the walls of the building were heavily barred, so there'd be no going through them without a considerable amount of noise.  
No, the only way he was going to get inside was through the front door. And that would mean going through the guards stationed out front.

Mortis got down on all fours and peered over the edge. Two female guards indeed stood at attention below him. Moving with exaggerated caution he slid off the roof and began to crawl down the wall, digging his claws deep into the stone for support.

He hoped to Hell no one would come into the cloister; they would die of shock at sight of a large, dark, winged being nestled above the heads of the guards.  
'Like a giant spider, ready to pounce' he thought with amusement.

He hovered above them, motionless, so close he could hear them breathing. Gripping desperately with his toe-claws, he reached out his hands, ready to render them unconscious with two simultaneous blows.

And then one of the women spoke.

"Have you been dreaming lately?" she asked. Mortis jerked back with a start. The other guard made a 'tch' sound and shook her head.

"Oh gods, Quinn, not this again. Are we going to talk about the meanings of your stupid dreams every time we have guard duty together? I swear I'm going to ask someone on wall-watch to trade places with me, if you keep this up."

"There's no need to be rude!" Quinn said, sounding hurt. "They worry me, Karla, and it helps to talk about it."

Karla sighed.  
"OK. Fine. What were they about this time?"

"Same as before, but stronger this time. More persuasive. It's still dark, and I can't see whose speaking. All I can make out is a silhouette. It looks human... but much larger. And definitely female. I can distinctly remember... red hair."

"Red hair?"

"Yeah. Red hair. It matches the voice somehow. She calls to me, or pleads with me, even acts motherly sometimes. I've only ever once got the feeling she was trying to command me, but I didn't like that so she stopped. It's not a disturbing dream... about the only thing that bothers me is the snakes."

"The... snakes? Riigghttt..."

"I'm not kidding! The silhouette has snakes all over it. At least, that's what it looks like. Long, whip-like snakes coming up over her shoulders and waving their heads around menacingly. It's really creepy actually."

"It sounds it." Karla shuddered, "Perhaps you should lay off shooting the wildlife. Sounds like they're after revenge or something."

"Do you think?" Quinn asked, sounding worried.

Mortis, still hovering above them, was completely intrigued by the conversation and had forgotten he was quite exposed in his current position. He quickly came to his senses and reached out again.

"Sorry girls," he whispered.

"Did you say something?" Karla asked her companion.

CRACK-

Mortis brought their skulls together hard, and the women slouched unconscious. He quickly dropped from the wall and dragged their bodies to a dark corner. The mission was in full swing now; it wouldn't be long before someone entered the cloister and saw that the guards weren't at their posts. Then the alarm would sound, and he damn well hoped Brent would be dead by then.

Laying them respectfully on the ground, he hurried back to the large Cathedral doors and tested the handles. Unlocked.

'Never know when one of the Rogues might have a crisis of faith' he supposed.  
He pulled one side of the door open, thankful it moved silently on its well oiled hinges, and slipped inside.


	3. Contract 1 Part 3

Inside, the Cathedral was beautiful by any standard. Rows of pews filled the main hall, and a long, red carpet ran down the centre, leading to a large canopied altar. Two prayer rooms were located on either side of the hall, filled with the exquisite stained glass windows he'd seen from outside. The high ceiling was filled with hanging ornaments, intricate chandeliers, and tapestries that depicted feral looking women: the original Sisters of the Sightless Eye.

Mortis saw his prey, kneeled at the altar, deep in chant. Brother Brent's soft words drifted to him, sounding strange, alien. Whatever they meant, he was certain it didn't bode well for the Rogues. Mortis strode up behind the old man and waited.

"Who do you chant for?" he asked.

The priest stopped mumbling but neither stood nor turned around.  
"Another man in the Citadel?" he asked calmly. "You are honoured indeed."

"Answer the question."

"Patience lad," Brent replied, standing up now, "I pray to the Heavens, seeking protection and guidance for these women. I keep evil at bay via a holy shield that must be strengthened every night." He gestured upwards; "Do you feel it, brother, feel its divine power? The power of the Gods, it is. Perhaps you wish to join me in worship?"

"The Hell I would," Mortis hissed.

Brent paused, and then turned around slowly. He gasped and stepped back in shock, seeing the being he'd been conversing with over the past few minutes. He pointed accusingly, a strangled look in his eyes.

"You're a... a..."

"A demon," Mortis finished. He lunged forward and grabbed Brent by the throat; "and I've come to make you pay for the lives you've been stealing to feed your own corrupted soul."

Brent struggled and kicked, but soon found himself dangling in the air. He grabbed Mortis's huge hand and tried to pry it from his windpipe.  
"What... do you mean?" he choked, fear welling in his eyes.

"You can't lie to me, Priest. I can smell evil; I was it once." He brought his face in close to Brent and breathed deep... then paused. He smelt nothing. None of that particular taint that was so common with the other men he'd been assigned to kill.

He shook his head.  
"Tricks! I heard you chanting just now; those were no normal prayers."

"Ward spell... protects... the Rogues," came the strangled reply.

"Stop it! Stop lying, old man. I know all about your evil scheme. You've just become adept at hiding your taint. Even mortals can sense it, and the women eventually would if you didn't hide it well."

"Not lying... you... are the tainted one... ENOUGH!"

A sudden blast of raw energy sent Mortis catapulting backwards. He sailed through the air and smashed into the right hand row of pews, breaking through three of them before coming to a rest. Groaning, he sat up and pulled a large splinter from his shoulder. He glared vengefully at Brent, who was leaning against the altar, gasping heavily and glaring back.

"I've had enough! I don't know who you are, or why you've barged in here accusing me of such evils. You were even willing to take my life! But I can deduce one thing: your intentions are not in service of the mighty Heaven, and therefore you are a threat to these women." He raised his hands; "You must be destroyed!"

Two bolts of pure light flew from Brent's palms and struck Mortis in the chest, sending him back through another two pews. The demon reeled; the light neither cut nor scorched the flesh, but inside he was burning up. He struggled to breathe.

Brent continued to yell in his fury, "I was a Paladin of the High Order; I swore to protect the Rogues. I will lay down my life to do so!"

More orbs of light flew across the hall, but Mortis was up and staggering aside. He summoned the energy to leap onto the wall, despite his pain, and began to scurry towards the dark peak of the ceiling.

"Flee, demon! My holy fire will slay you!"

The light orbs followed Mortis's ascent, blowing holes through tiles and rocking the building. He climbed, dodging and clawing for his life, circling around the peak until the canopy of the altar finally shielded him from Brent's view.

The barrage of orbs halted, and Mortis waited, crouched on the ceiling, for the second the priest came out to find him. After a minute, Brent cautiously did so, and Mortis pounced. Hurtling down, hands outstretched and claws flashing, he looked like a vision from a nightmare.

Brent paused but a second before unleashing another volley of light. An orb struck Mortis at the last moment, doubling him over, and the falling demon barrelled into the priest. They tussled on the floor, clawing and punching for all it was worth. Brent's thick robe protected him from the slashing talons, but he was too slow to avoid the massive head-butt that sent him flying.

The two were back on their feet in an instant, the priest proving surprisingly nimble for his age. They circled each other, watching their opponent's movements keenly. Brent suddenly drew a large silver crucifix out from his robe and thrust it in Mortis's direction.

"Burn!" he cried, and made two slashing motions.

The beams of light that came this time _did_ cut, and the smell of his own burning flesh filled Mortis's nostrils. He looked at his chest and saw a still-sizzling sign of the cross scarred deep.

Mortis bared his teeth as he saw the crucifix rise again and instinctively hit the floor. Brent snarled in triumph as beams of light streaked over Mortis's head. The agile demon dodged left and right, bearing down on his prey, and with one swift motion he rolled and lashed his wing outwards, knocking the cross from the priest's hands. He came up and took a blind swipe with his claws, hoping to at least injure Brent. The warm, pulsing chunk of flesh that suddenly appeared in his hand surprised him.

Brent looked equally surprised at the blood flowing from his slashed throat. He put his hands up to stifle the flow, but the damage had already been down. Paling, he fell to his knees, then slowly slouched onto his back.

Mortis dropped the piece of meat and sighed. Tiredly, he stumbled over and knelt beside Brent's face, expecting to see hatred in the old man's eyes as his final moments slipped away. Instead, he saw only a resigned sadness.

"Repent, old man" he said softly, "Admit the corruption you succumbed to, and go freely to the Heavens."

Brent's eyes widened and a deep gurgling rose from his mangled throat. His chest rose with the effort to speak.  
"My place in Heaven… is assured. But the women..." he made a sound that was either a laugh or a cry of anguish; "You have… doomed... ... them all."

His head lolled, and the severed artery in his neck ceased to pump blood. Mortis rose, his kill complete, and turned to leave the Cathedral.

From somewhere deep underground, the earth gave a mighty tremble. It shifted and growled, shaking the foundations of the building. Mortis took to the air in surprise; unnerved by the sudden disturbance.

At that moment the Cathedral doors burst open, and a large contingent of Rogues poured in. There was fury on their faces, and vengeance in their eyes. But that quickly faded to shock, as there eyes met a horror from their dreams.

A great, winged being hovered over the body of their beloved priest, the gore still dripped fresh from its claws. They saw by its face and the golden eyes that it was no man. It was demon, and it had defiled their Cathedral.

Mortis wanted to explain, to tell them he had actually saved their lives and Brent wasn't the man they thought he'd been. But he could see the hurt, the horror, and the anger bubbling inside them, and knew they wouldn't listen to anything he said.

With a unified cry the women nocked arrows to their bows and began shooting wildly. Mortis flapped his great wings and rushed towards the ceiling, arrows nicking his chest and thighs. The roof was his only means of escape, he knew, and as he powered upwards he clenched his outstretched hands into fists and closed his eyes.

At the last second he folded his wings down close, and let the momentum carry him into the brittle tiles. With a crash he exploded out on the other side, sailing out into open air and soft moonlight, and then began to fall. He quickly unfurled his wings and brought himself to a hovering halt.

A stream of arrows followed him out of the hole, arcing far into the night, and he swooped down low over the rest of the Citadel to avoid them. The nicks in his flesh and holes in his wings would heal quickly, he knew, so he ignored the stabs of pain for the moment. As he crossed low over the rest building, he half expected to be assaulted again. But something wasn't right.

The women were in hysterics. Some rolled on the ground; other held their heads in their hands. Most just stood swaying and staring blankly like zombies. In the barracks courtyard, the ones holding weapons had actually turned on each other.

Mortis glided past, somewhat worried about the strange events unfolding below him. No force he knew could make this many humans act in such a way. The ominous rumble beneath the Cathedral also made him uneasy.

Some of the Rogues spotted him at last, and started shooting arrows. Their aim was nothing of what it used to be; they barely paused to judge the distance. Mortis quickly veered away and left the chaos behind, heading east to the lands of Aranoch. He had a feeling there was nothing more he could do.

* * *

His mission was complete, although the aftermath had been strange. He couldn't stop seeing the blank stares of the Rogues in his mind. Brent's words still rang in his ears, niggling into his mind and conscience.

"_My place in Heaven… is assured. But the women... you have… doomed... ... them all." _

Braca was going to meet him at the foot of the Gholeinian Desert at midnight tomorrow, and Mortis promised himself he'd get some answers from the mysterious little man.

But for now he was determined to take his time and try to unwind. He had a long flight ahead of him, and two days worth of events to think about. And he knew sleep wouldn't come for him tonight anyway.


	4. Chapter 2 Part 1

Contract 2 – Sultan of Lut Gholein

* * *

_Collateral  
Indirect, subsidiary, or accessory to the main thing_

* * *

"I can't do it, dammit! How many times must I tell you? I don't even think it's possible for demons to learn magik. Why must we persist?" Mortis banged his fist on the makeshift desk in frustration.

Zac smirked, despite the possible danger of the enraged demon sitting before him; "Nonsense. You can summon and control fire from within you, can you not? That's a form of magik right there."

"Yes, but we are _born_ with that, something we can do at an age so young we barely recognise it as a skill."

"Give yourself time. Even an old dog can learn new tricks if he knows the rewards are well worth it."

Mortis sighed and nodded, his anger subsiding. His 'teacher' always had a way of killing even the worst tantrums. He gazed around the little room they used for his lessons; at the wall painted with black tar, covered in white chalk scribbles, at the assorted rarities decorating the walls on their shelves. And at the smiling face of the man trying so hard to educate a demon in this strange and alien world.

The 'teacher' was an elderly man named Zac Robinson. He'd lived most his life in the forests of Khanduras, a Hermit, but not unknown. Apart from being a highly respected member of a notorious thief guild, he was also a collector of rare antiquities. From the exoticness of the room in which Mortis sat, it was obvious the two careers complimented each other.

Mortis's two year travels had eventually taken him over the seas, to the lands of Rogues and the Deserts. He'd stumbled across Zac, hunting in the woods, and was surprised to meet the first man who hadn't fled in fright. After the initial surprise of meeting each other, and tentative yet awkward introductions, Zac offered Mortis a bed and food in exchange for any stories he might know.

Zac was a wise, witty and extremely curious gentleman. And, as it turned out, extremely partial to stories, especially ones involving the brutal and blood filled wars of Hell. Mortis had come to believe that his knowledge of the fiery demon dimension was the true reason Zac had taken him in. It seemed all humans feared his world, yet were intrigued by it none the less.

Mortis had more then enough tales to keep the old man enthralled for weeks, and by the time his tongue was dry and mind raked to its core, they had become proper and steadfast friends.

With the tales dwindling, it hadn't been long before Zac's next subject of interest entered their conversations; the demon form itself. Although Mortis was highly uncomfortable with the idea of being studied, the old man claimed if he was allowed to do so, they both might gain valuable knowledge on the limitations and abilities of Mortis's body under the laws of this world.

He finally agreed, and Zac subjected him to many vigorous tests. The old man examined every inch of the demon's body, from the space between his toes to the span of his wings. Zac had a curious room in his hut that he dabbed 'the lab', and inside was full of glass tubes and delicate instruments. Mortis was forbidden to enter, simply because of his bulky size. Zac didn't want to risk him knocking over the equipment.

"A bull in a china shop, you mightn't be. But you're pretty damn close," his teacher had laughed.

It was in this room that Zac did his most intricate work, analysing the demons blood through a cylinder full of glass pieces. He spent hours looking through the eye piece, drawing what he saw onto a paper pad he kept by his side always. The process lasted at least another week, but by the end of it, the amount of information they had acquired was staggering.

As Zac expected, the rate in which the demon body processed energy was far higher then usual. Yet his body still had the remarkable ability of storing the most vital of nutrients, allowing him to survive almost twice the time of a human without food or water.

The accelerated rate of regeneration was something Zac couldn't explain. Any wounds Mortis received would inexplicably heal within hours or even minutes of receiving them, depending on the nature and deepness of the cut. These were unchangeable demonic traits, and did not seem to be affected by the laws of Sanctuary.

Hearing, eye sight, and sense of smell were all heightened, as was expected. Susceptibility to disease or organ failure was very low, his blood seemed able to identify and produce its own serums for fighting off poisons.

Mortis studied every inch of the old man's report, not really understanding most of these statements, but one factor produced the biggest shock for him.

Life expectancy.

In Hell, a demon's life was eternal. Locked up and away from harm, never forced into battle or drained by one of the Lords, a demon could sit on the edge of the abyss until time turned his body to stone. And even that happening wasn't a certainty.

In Sanctuary, Zac could give no definite age limit, but he could confirm that eventually Mortis would die like any other Mortal. From the time he'd spent looking at the demons blood, Zac had deduced that although Mortis's cells aged far slower then any other living being he'd ever studied, they did eventually decay and die. And so, Mortis's fate was assured.

Mortis was faced with his own mortality for the first time, and it was not a welcome feeling.

As more weeks came and passed, Zac began to share the wealth of knowledge he'd acquired over the course of his well travelled life. He revealed he was skilled at many basic magiks that helped in his thieving career. When Mortis took a keen interest in these abilities, the old man devised some classes for his pupil, and so it came to be that the demon called the human, 'teacher.'

"Look, it's a simple summoning spell. When you master it you will be able to call in, or vanish, any object of yours at will."

"I don't understand how that works," Mortis snorted. "Where do the objects go when I 'vanish' them?"

"Your mind. Your memory."

"My... memory?"

"Correct. Or at least, as close to correct as we can get. In truth, no one knows exactly where they go. But they exist for as long as you remember they're there. But if you forget..." he made a 'poof!' sound and motion with ihs hands, "Gone. Forever. Many objects have simply fallen off the face of Sanctuary that way."

Mortis mulled over this for a long time.

"That would indeed make thievery easy" he said thoughtfully.

Zac suddenly became very serious, and his expression darkened.  
"No, Mort, it does not." He pulled a chair in close and sat down, leaning in as if he feared the walls had ears. "What I'm about to tell you, you must never tell anyone else. Mort, do you promise?"

"I promise, Teacher. May I be cast back into the depths of Hell if I break it."

"Good. Now are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

"Can you hear me Mort? Mortis, are you listening? Mortis? MORTIS!"

* * *

Mortis sat up with a start, almost colliding heads with the figure leaning over his bed. Braca jumped back and gulped.

"S-sorry. I couldn't tell if you were sleeping or not. Do you know you sleep with your eyes open?"

Mortis rubbed his neck and grumbled something under his breath.

"Yes. It helps to stop enemies sneaking up on me. I was just... dreaming this time."

"Ah... well, I hope you're rested enough to receive your new contract. It's quite an important one." Braca rubbed his hands together and his eyes shone dimly. Mortis grunted and got up off the bed.

"It's the middle of the night. Give me a few minutes to wake up before you start telling me about the throats I must slit."

Braca nodded in agreement as he watched the demon walk over to a dresser. Mortis had called in some spare garments upon arrival at the inn; the ones he'd been wearing during the mission had been ravaged by the Rogues' arrows.

He never wore much in the way of clothing. Undergarments for modesty, animal skin coverings similar to that of the Barbarians in the north. He couldn't wear shirts or anything that required being slipped over his head, as there were very few tailors that designed them with wings in mind. There was, however, a breastplate that could be unfastened and clasped around his chest. He hadn't worn that out on last night's job.

He opened a drawer of the dresser and began to flick through the various pieces he did have. And suddenly realised Braca was still watching him.

"Do you mind?" he said over his shoulder.

"Mind what?"

Mortis turned around quickly, strode over and grabbed the little man by the scruff of his well-pressed suit.  
"Even demons like to have privacy," he growled, and tossed Braca out the door before he had time to protest.

* * *

The small man with slicked back hair paced the hallway impatiently, wringing his hands, twitching like a mad thing. Finally the door creaked open, and Mortis filled its frame. He was preened and looked far more awake.

"Excellent! It's about time. My employers are very eager to thank you for your work last night; you were exceptional."

"It wasn't much."

"Oh, but it was. Brent was a powerful man; you did well to succeed as... intact... as you are now."

"Yes. He was a -" suddenly the full details of the night before flooded back to him, and Mortis slammed the little man up against the wall. "What did you make me DO?"

"W-w-what?" Braca stammered.

"Brent wasn't corrupted. He was as loyal to the Rogues as he would be to family. _You made me kill an innocent man._" Fire was beginning to build in his eyes, and the sudden reek of ammonia hit his nostrils as Braca's bladder released.

"He wasn't! He wasn't, I swear! Please, let me explain!" The nervous twitch had progressed into a full on contortion of the face, and he was sweating profusely.

Mortis squinted at him with his sharp golden eyes, smelling the genuine fear coming from his sweat. And his pants.

"Fine. You have three minutes."

He dropped Braca, who fell against the wall shaking uncontrollably.  
"Brent was a Paladin, in service to the Zakarum," he began to babble, the words come out at a hummingbird pace.

"He was very high ranking, and so spent a lot of time with the High Council. The very Council that now stands corrupted and bloodthirsty in the Tower of Kurast. The influence of Mephisto is like a disease; it can viscously attack the mind immediately, or it can take root in the body, staying dormant for as long as necessary."

"The Council and the Zakaramites were consumed fast, because they were so close to the source of influence. But Brent left at the first signs of other's madness, thinking he could escape it if he was in another country."

Mortis crossed his arms, his eyes still narrow slits. Braca gulped and pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve to wipe the urine from his trousers as he continued.

"My employers kept a watchful eye on him for all the years he spent in service to the Sisters, and it was only recently that we began to see symptoms surface. It starts with dreams; wild, violent dreams that make the victims buck in their beds. In the morning they can remember nothing, and so they go about their daily lives with no knowledge of what's awakening in their bodies. Their mental state slowly degenerates, until one day they snap, and Mephisto has them. They become mindless killing machines, hellbent on slaying anything in their path back to the source, to protect it."

He sighed, and stared at the carpet."Brent was a good man. It was hard on my employers to authorise that contract. We simply could not allow an event like that to unfold."

Mortis stood quietly, his nails clicking tentatively against his hardened skin. He didn't look fully convinced.

"If that is the true story, why did you make a false one in the contract for me to go on? Why not just tell me the real reason outright?"

"Because you're you!" Braca replied, his voice rising. He'd stopped shaking now and had regained some of his usual confidence.

"My employers know what you're like; they know your unusual morals when it comes to women and children. By all rights you shouldn't care who you kill, being the demon you are." He paused, wondering if he'd overstepped the line a bit by the look on Mortis's face.

"They needed you to fight to the best of your ability, and to do that they used the best weapon of persuasion; the lives of all the women in that Citadel. They knew you'd fight with all your fury to protect them. And you did, Mortis; you saved them. Just not from the danger you originally thought."

Mortis leaned in close, his face inches from Braca's

"Then tell me why they all went crazy after I killed Brent."

The little man gasped and pushed himself away from the demon, back out in the hallway as if he wanted to run.

"You... you saw that?"

"I did. It wasn't pretty. And I have no idea what instigated it. Do you?" he glared accusingly.

Braca gulped again, and then suddenly became very professional.

"The details of events that take place after your contracts are fulfilled are not necessary for you to know. You are hired to do a task, for a set price, with the information you are given. If more is required, and I and my employers deem it beneficial, we will provide it. Other then that, we expect you to either accept or decline our offers, and probe no further."

Mortis immediately found himself wondering whether the man's fear had all been an act, and perhaps this was the real thing. The change was unnerving all the same. Braca brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder and looked down his nose at the demon before him.

"Have I made myself clear?"

Mortis was silent, slightly taken aback. Nobody, certainly no man, had ever spoken to him in such a way. The dangerous edge in his employers voice, told him that perhaps discretion was the best course of action.

"My apologies, Mr. Braca. I will ask no more questions."

"It's just Braca. I currently have no birthing name." He relaxed a little, sure now that he wasn't about to be disembowelled on the spot.

"If it makes you feel any better, Brent in himself had become a source for the madness. The women had contracted a slight dose, and that had been purged upon his death. The effects are temporary. They should have returned to a normal state of mind not long after you left."

Mortis nodded.

"That helps."

Braca reached into his suit and fumbled about, finally pulling out a neatly sealed envelope. "The details of your next assignment rest within this letter. If you accept it, we can offer you a sum equal to that of the last. Do you accept?"

Mortis thought for a few seconds, his mind reeling at how much money he was earning from the strange man before him. Then he nodded, and reached out a clawed hand.

"You'll like this one" Braca said slyly, "I believe you mentioned the Sultans of Lut Gholein last time we met?" He handed Mortis the letter. "Well, now you get to meet one for yourself."


	5. Contract 2 Part 2

Desert. Mortis's least favourite landscape to traverse. The hot, moistureless air dried the membranous skin of his wings and cracked his lips. Yet despite those small discomforts, it was a place he'd returned to often in the past. He had a history here.

As he passed under the great stone arch of the cities entrance, he was almost relieved to see it had barely changed in the past seven years.

'Sands shift, people come and die. But this place never seems to age...' he thought.

The mighty palace of the Sultans towered above the smaller stone buildings, its impressive tear-drop shaped roof sand blasted but still magnificent. Not far from that was the two story brothel and exotic dance house. Mortis secretly hoped the girls had changed, even if the city hadn't. The market in the middle was a hive of activity, and laughter could be heard from the nearby tavern. He focused on the bar and walked towards it, aware of the eyes already beginning to watch him.

Out the front of the tavern, a middle aged woman watched a young boy playing in the street. Her husband watched too, an arm draped protectively and lovingly around his wife's shoulders; a smile on both of their faces. The woman suddenly noticed Mortis, and her smile fell.

"Gel! Gel come quickly" she called.

The boy, drawn by the slight urgency in her voice, stopped playing and walked to his parents. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.  
By this time market chatter had began to fade as more people noticed the large figure strolling down the main street. The boy had seen him now and was squirming wildly in his mother's arms.

Mortis stopped a few feet away, as the child finally freed himself. He ran towards the demon that was easily four times his size, hands outstretched. 

"Mortis, Mortis!" he cried.

Mortis smiled and stooped to collect the boy.

"Gel!" he said, easily cradling the child in the crook of his arm. "You've gotten big." 

"Big enough to beat _you _up soon" Gel grinned. He balled his hands into fists and made a faux swing, "POW!" 

"Whoa, easy, Tiger." Mortis chuckled. "I'd rather not lose a fight to a kid in public. Bad for the reputation"

Gel's parents had wandered over, the woman smiling warmly now."Hello, Mortis" she said. "It's been a long time. I seem to remember you visiting far more often."

"Hello, Atma" he replied, "Yes, I suppose seven years is a long time. To humans. But you haven't aged a day."

She appreciated the comment, but they both knew it wasn't true. The grey in her hair and lines around her eyes portrayed the struggles and hardships she endured from living in this desert city.

"Mortis." Atma's husband extended his hand.

"Ackmand" Mortis took his hand and shook it slowly. There was no hostility between them; only the uneasy tension you would expect from a husband whose wife was standing in front of a being, widely thought of as an unpredictable killing machine. "You're looking well too."

They listened in silence to Gel babble about his pet scorpion as they walked towards the tavern. And then a gruff voice spoke behind them.

"So, the Dune Hunter returns."

Mortis stopped dead in his tracks. Eyeing Atma, he nodded and handed the boy over, before slowly turning around. 

"Elzix...?" he said, somewhat surprised.

The balding man wearing an eye patch leaned heavily on his cane and limped down the street towards him.

"Yes, it's me. The man you left for dead among the bodies of my bandit buddies." He scowled as he reached Mortis's feet, glaring up unintimidated.  
"I owe you, demon."

Uneasy silence. Apprehensive stares. The market was readying itself for a full fledged battle. But suddenly Elzix's face broke into a broad grin.

"Owe you for changing my life! Ha!" he slapped Mortis on the shoulder. "Good to see you. Relax already."

Mortis allowed himself to breathe. The idea of killing in front of the boy had put him on the edge, and he was slowly concentrating on stepping back. Elzix's behaviour had him thoroughly confused.

"Changed... your life?"

"You bet! Turned over a new leaf. I'm an honest man now."

Mortis raised an eyebrow.

"And my taking your eye and leg did this?"

"Hey, if knowing a beast like you is stalking the sands isn't enough to turn a man from crime... well I probably should have just stayed there and bled to death, cause I'm sure as hell you would have finished me off second time 'round. Besides," he continued, "with the rest of the band dead I got a hundred percent of the loot."

Mortis's features hardened and Elzix quickly jumped to his own defence.

"Oh, but don't worry, I used it to buy the inn on the other side of town. I run an honest business. And as a show of goodwill, I'll even let you stay the night free." 

Mortis finally relaxed enough to shake the old bandit's hand."Thank you for the offer, but I won't be needing it. I'm not staying long."

"Eh? You're leaving already? But you just got here!"

Another familiar voice. Mortis turned to see a wrinkly, toothless man wearing a fez. He had numerous bottles slotted into his belt and protruding from every pocket on his body. 

"Lysander! You're still here? And still brewing those crazy potions, I'm betting."

"Indeed I am! And I've just made a real boomer: my new home brew. If you think you're up to it we can challenge at the bar. I guarantee it'll knock you socks off and burn like hell all the way down."

"We'll see about that," Mortis smiled, "I don't wear socks, so I'm one up on you already."

The friendly greetings and familiar faces continued to drift in, and the day ebbed on. Mortis felt the warm feeling that was rare anywhere else: acceptance. The people here welcomed him for the deeds he'd done for them in the past, and to some degree he felt they were friends. He felt personally responsible for their welfare and safety.

So he wondered how the contract he held for the death of their leader was going to affect the relationships he'd developed within this city. If they found out, the repercussions could purge their faith in him in a second. He didn't think he could handle that. It was, after all, the only city so far that saw him for who he was...


	6. Contract 2 Part 3

Dusk settled, the haze of sand in the air bathing the city in a red glow. Mortis sat in Atma's bar, finishing the last of his ale. He found it bitter compared to the liqueur Zac once had in his cabinet, a stash that had been accumulated from a life of thieving from well-to-do merchants. But it was refreshing none the less.

The bar was almost empty now, save for two men in the corner. He recognised them both: Greiz, the Captain of the Guard and Greglash, a retired mercenary. They had spoken earlier, casual small talk about the west and its happenings. Now the two men were in a deep conversation of their own.

"I tell ya, it's not right! The Sultan can't just go pulling men out of me ranks without telling me the purpose." Greiz was a hardened veteran, and expected discipline and organization in all things to do with his guards. "He can't keep me in the bloody dark like that."

"I know -ic- whatsh ya mean. It'sh a consprishy! That'sh what it is... aaaallll pawnsh in the bigger... scheme... of things." Greglash had been retired for fifteen years after receiving a crippling belly blow. It didn't deter him from filling it with grog first chance he got.

"Oh... shut it, Greglash," Greiz snorted. "You and your crazy ideas. Being retired's just given you too much time to think. Drink up and kill a few more brain cells."

"Don't mind -ic-... if I do... but I'm telling you! The Sultan'sh... up to something..."

Something clicked in his mind, and Mortis realised the old mercenary was closer to the truth then the Captain wished to believe. Glancing around quickly to make sure no one was looking over his shoulder, Mortis closed his eyes and called in the new contract. He looked around one more time; Atma out the back somewhere, the two men still in drunken conversation. He unfolded the letter and began to read through Braca's familiar bold print:

_"Contract 2 – Sultan of Lut Gholein _

There are currently two ruling Sultans of the desert city, Lut Gholein: Abdullah Hassani the 33rd, and his son, Jerhyn Hassani, next in line to the throne.

The Hassani bloodline has been known for its vast wealth and political power since the foundation of the city, and no one has ever tried to usurp their rule. They are also known for their great greed and selfishness. As each new ruler steps up to the throne, he becomes more heartless and self-servient then the last. Abdullah is no exception.

Under his rule, taxes have increased 27, and care for the city and its inhabitants has diminished almost to the point where they are now fending for themselves while making their fat leader wealthier. Abdullah is more partial to spending his gold on Harem girls and personal slaves, which brings us to the reason for this contract.

Hassani the 33rd has a fetish for the 'exotic', and is entertained by foreign women far more then his own. Likewise he prefers foreign male slaves, as he finds it challenging to 'break' their strong spirits. Also, if one should go missing in a fit of the Sultans rage, there are no friends or family to ask questions on their whereabouts.

To keep his supply of 'exotic' staff fresh, Abdullah has year-quarterly arrangements with a notorious kidnapper's guild. This guild travels the lands in large caravans, known as 'Human Zoos', where foreign subjects – mostly young so they can be broken and controlled easily – are sold to the highest bidders.

While my employers would prefer to eradicate the leader of these 'zoos', his location is, so far, still hidden. The best we can do his eliminate the collaborators, starting with Hassani.

Your goal: one hour after midnight, the Sultan plans to ride out with a formidable contingent of loyal guards and meet his suppliers beyond the canyons that lead to the Desert Oasis.  
Ambush him in the canyon and dispose of this vile man. It is preferable that you also dispose of the body; fewer questions will be asked if he disappears altogether then if his mangled remains are found.

The guards... they know of the Sultans wicked business deals, and make no attempt to stop him. Do with them as you will.

My employers understand you have a close connection to the people of Lut Gholein, so they implore you to be as discreet as possible. Know also that Abdullahs son, Jerhyn, is a noble man who shows no sign of the hereditary greed... yet. He still considers his people the highest priority, and they will do far better under his rule.

Remove the Sultan, make way for a better leader, and eliminate a buyer for the Human Zoo's at the same time. People who have such little respect for their fellow man have no place in this world.

Braca

P.S. You are not the only one who wants the Sultan dead. Keep your eyes open, and don't -"

"Letter from home?" Atma inquired from behind the bar.

Mortis jumped. How long has she been there? He closed his eyes to vanish the paper, and discovered his hands already empty. In his shock he had done it automatically. That had never happened before.

"Hardly," he said, "The demons of Hell don't even know how to write, let alone use paper. Blood and pentagrams are about all they can manage."

"Oh... so what was it?" she replied, before quickly adding; "If you don't mind me asking.

Mortis smiled.

"It's a thank you letter from an employer."

Atma knew better then to probe further. She'd been a young girl when she'd first met him, but the Dune Hunter's legacy stretched back far further then that. Bandits were rare occurrences in the desert these days, though once it had been rife with them. Caravans could only travel with a large force of guards for protection, and sometimes even that wouldn't deter them.

Then a dark stranger, one not from this world, had come offering his services. It had been dangerous to trust him, but the people had no other choice. They agreed to his fee... and the desert Bandits were no more. One by one they simply vanished from Aranoch, leaving empty caves and hushed rumours in their passing.

Elzix's band had been the last, and tales of the carnage had become whispered bed time tales for the children of the next generation – almost certainly ensuring they would want to grow up respectable, law abiding citizens.

Mortis pushed his glass over the bar and stood up, nodding politely in Atma's direction.

"Thank you for the free drink." He headed for the door.

"You're not... doing anything tonight... are you Mortis?"

He paused. She knew better then that; for her own safety she should have. Then why did she still ask? Women.

"Goodbye Atma."

It felt more final then he wanted it too.

* * *

The sun had set by the time he left the tavern. It was that murky half-light; the twilight that came before total darkness. The time that reminded him most of Hell.  
The palace tower was a tear shaped shadow, high above all else. He passed through the market on his way towards it empty now, aside from a few homeless still scrounging in the garbage heaps.

Braca had lied to him on the first contract. He had a plausible reason and story, but that still didn't make up for the fact that Mortis's trust in his employer had been betrayed. This time, he was going to be certain of the contracts authenticity. This time he was going to make sure the target was what he was made out to be. He was going to see the Sultan.

Though he was in good stead with the people of Lut Gholein, the Sultans had never opted to meet him. Every Sultan that had ever come to power during the time Mortis had walked the sands neither acknowledged nor praised his accomplishments for the city. They considered themselves too pure to consort with a demon, so to this day he had yet to see one of the great Hassani's with his own eyes.

Two guards stood in the entrance of the palace, supposedly alert and on watch. In reality, one leaned heavily on his spear, dozing, while the other picked nonchalantly at his uniform. Mortis nearly climbed the stairs to their feet before he was noticed.

"Halt!" cried the uniform-picking guard. He brought his spear out in front, ready to skewer. "You may not pass."

The other guard jerked awake with a snort and looked sleepily around."'Ere, what's all the noise about, Kaelen? Can't a man get some peace for a few minutes, it's been a twelve hour-"

He stopped when he saw Mortis before them.  
"Oh... careful lad, that's the Dune Hunter. You don't want to mess with him."

Kaelan eyed the intruder with deepening suspicion."He is forbidden from entering the palace, Treval, you know that." He thrust the tip of his spear almost up Mortis's nose, "What do you want, demon?"

Mortis raised his hands.

"Easy there: I've come to see the Sultan. I mean no harm." He took the sharpened tip in his hand and pushed it slowly away.

Treval stepped forward.

"Mortis, now look: I got nothing against you, and neither does Kaelen here. Hell, you kept my ancestors from going destitute by wiping out those bandits raiding our caravans, same as you did for everyone else's grandmothers and fathers." He leaned in, excluding Kaelan but by no means hiding his words.

"But try to understand. If we let you into the palace the Sultan will literally have our heads. We can't afford to do that to our families. It's just not worth it, I'm sorry."

Mortis was silent, his wings flapping back and forth lazily.

"You're really struggling, aren't you?" he said grimly.

Treval hung his head.

"You'd know better then anyone. Every new Sultan that comes along jacks up the taxes even more. It's a struggle for everyone to survive, not just us guards."

Mortis closed his eyes and concentrated. Two bags, bulging and heavy, appeared in his hands. It was only a small percentage of the reward Braca had given him, but still a generous amount for the average commoner.

"In exchange for entry into the palace, I offer you both this small token of my good will. And," he raised his hand in a flat palmed oath; "my word that I will cause no trouble that could be linked back to you two. I have come to _see_ the Sultan... nothing more."

The two guards looked at each other, the various consequences that could result from their actions turning over in their heads. Then they slowly reached out to take the gold from Mortis's hands.

"We didn't see nothing, right Kaelen?"

Kaelan was uneasy, but finally nodded in agreement.

"Didn't see a thing."

* * *

Mortis crept down the spiral staircase, senses so alert he would have jumped at a moth's flight. He could hear everything below; guard's armour clinking as they walked, women's soft, melodious voices. And somewhere in the distance, a deep, stomach laugh boomed. He honed in on that laugh as he reached the bottom of the stairs and headed towards it, further into the Harem.

The place was considerably larger then he imagined, and extravagantly decorated. Plush bedrooms filled with the finest silks and softest, down-filled pillows. Hand woven carpets that would have taken years to complete, lying on floors made of polished marble.  
Mortis gritted his teeth; it was nice to see the people's taxes going to such charitable causes.

Another roar of laughter, closer now, made him dart into a corridor and then back again; a second before the guard he'd brushed against turned to wonder where that breeze had come from.  
Mortis held his breath, pressed against the wall, until the man shrugged and started to patrol to the other end. Too close, far too close.

He glanced to his left and right, making sure he wasn't going to be surprised by anyone else, and dashed into the opposing room. This room, small, most likely just a place to walk through or sit, led into a ludicrously large area filled with cushions and hanging incense burners. Even a small fountain. At one end, sitting on a bed so soft he practically sank to the floor, was Abdullah Hassani himself.

He was a stocky man, some would even say fat, and his large, twirly moustache gave him an almost comical appearance. He was smiling and clapping as a small group of attractive and lithe women danced for his entertainment in the centre of the floor. On his left sat a young, fit man dressed in fine blue and white robes. Undoubtedly the Sultans son, his head rested in one hand, finger covering his mouth. He looked thoroughly bored.

The Sultan, on the other hand, couldn't have been any more excited. He was bouncing and clapping on his bed, so much so that the servant holding his food tray had to step back. For a man of his size and social stature, Mortis found Abdullah's behaviour highly inappropriate.

At last the dance ended, and the girls fell to the floor in a panting heap. The Sultan sat up in his bed and applauded loudly.

"Bravo! Bravo! Magnificent!" He slapped his son on the shoulder so hard the lad squinted. "Don't you think? Applaud them, my boy!"

Jerhyn smiled weakly and clapped. The Sultan saw his troubled look.

"What's the matter, girls not to your liking?"

His son flinched. It was obvious Jerhyn feared his father, even if he respected him at the same time.

"Oh... no, they're fine dancers. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"Just... well, I don't enjoy watching women do this, knowing they've been forced into it."

The room was quiet now; the tambourines and pipe instruments accompanying the girls dancing were beginning to leave the room with their players. The silence only emphasized the change that came over Abdullah.

"What do you mean 'forced', boy?"No longer was he the bumbling, almost childish character Mortis had witnessed only seconds earlier. Now he was something dark, something more powerful and sinister. He was a dictator, a ruler, ready to smash the will of all those who opposed him. And it was obvious his son knew this ruler well.

"Nothing, father!" Jerhyn cried, "They're wonderful. Simply wonderful."

But the Sultan wasn't ready to let this drop yet.

"Those girls have the blessing of living in the palace. They have food, comfortable beds, clothing fit for queens. Do you think it is not our right, as their providers, protectors, and caretakers, to be indulged with some entertainment every once in awhile? They have everything they could ever need right here; what more could they want?"

"How about to return home?" The look in Jerhyns eyes was icy now. Mortis knew that look well; he had experienced it himself many times. The boy was on the edge, and if pushed hard enough there may be no going back.

When his father didn't answer, only turned a darker shade of red, Jerhyn continued:  
"How about to know their families? Not to be forced to lie down next to you or any of your infernal guards whenever you desire it?" He was standing now, hands clenched.

'Easy boy' Mortis thought, 'Step back now. Don't do anything you'll regret. That's my job.'

"And the servants," Jerhyn yelled, "I'm sure they would have liked to know they could father children in the future, know they could have a family and life of their own. But no, I'm sure you are the one who is right. The girls dance for you out of gratitude, and always have."

His father exploded, Abdullah's rage so fierce he could only speak through spit and gurgles.

"We own them! They acknowledge that, _they dance of their own free will!_"

"The same free will that brought them to this place?" Jerhyns voice was flat and emotionless. He had said what he wanted to say.

Abdullah finally found his voice.

"_Get out! Get out your ingrate; you spawn of your mother's womb. I'll see you join her in Hell before you sit on my throne. Get out!_"

Jerhyn obeyed without another word. The Sultan went about unleashing his fury on every object he could get his hands on; tearing pillows, smashing incense burners, throwing ceramics. Mortis could have watched the temper tantrum all day.

But the princes words had reminded him of the reason he'd come down here. He quickly scanned over the Sultans servants that sat cowering or standing in the room:

Two slaves, each holding a massive peacock feather, fanned over the Sultans bed. Their skin was tanned dark brown, almost black, and Mortis recognised them as natives of Kehjistan found mainly around the jungle city of Kurast. They were visibly frightened by Abdullah's wrath, but dared not stop their work.

The women on the floor huddled together in fear. So thin and pale, Mortis could see the beauty hidden beneath their long black hair and emerald eyes. With shock he realised they were witches from the east; young and therefore most likely unaware of their abilities, but powerful none the less.  
Mortis imagined them, snatched from their families under the cover of night, thrown into the moving cages and beaten until they were quiet. It enraged him. It brought him to the edge.

But he controlled it for now. The last servant was the man holding the food tray. A Barbarian, there was no doubt, but not like the ones Mortis had met. His body was lean and face fair, almost feminine. And he had just become the Sultans next target.

"Ignorant _fool_!" he bellowed, and slapped the tray from his servant's hand. "He doesn't know how good he has it. I don't know why I waste my time and wealth on him; he's his mother's son and always will be. And you!" he pointed at the young Barbarian for a long time, enjoying watching him quiver;  
"Clean up this mess immediately," he said at last.

"At once, Sultan. My apologies." As he got down and began to pick up the food, Mortis hung his head. The boy had been broken.

He could hear it in his voice, see it in his features. The fire and aggressiveness that was the trait mark of his heritage was gone, given way to a meek, sub-servient being. He had been broken, subjected to an operation that not only robbed him of his zeal for life but his masculinity and ability to sire children in the future.  
Mortis boiled.

Abdullah's own rage was burning down now, and he was beginning to run out of things to destroy. As well as breath.

"All of you out," he huffed, "I have business to prepare for."

The slaves began to file out of the room, the sadness in their eyes told Mortis they already knew what business the Sultan was going to attend. He had seen what he had come to see; Abdullah had done an impressive job at sealing his own fate. The contract was rightly placed.

* * *

Mortis slunk back out into the corridor, now surprisingly empty of guards. It was possible the Sultan was preparing for his meeting with the kidnappers already, and if that was the case he would have to head to the canyon fast. He wanted to fly on ahead and meet the Zoo Keepers for himself, welcome them to the desert the Dune Hunter way -

'_Mortis_'

He stopped dead in his tracks. Had he really just heard that? He had, but not out loud. It had been whispered to him from within his mind. And it came from the room he just passed.

Cautiously, he crept back to the doorway and peered in. It was a weapons room, filled with the most exquisite items the Hassani family had bought - or acquired through other means - during their long rule. In the centre of the room, resting upon a frame of gold, sat a sword. It was forged of long, polished steel, its hilt jewel encrusted.

It pulsed with power. It lured. It called. Mortis stepped into the room, mesmerised. It was so... perfect. He strode up to it, feeling it whispering to him, but not in words.

He reached for it. He wanted it, desired it with all his soul. All he would have to do is take it. He could sneak it past the guards, they never need know. And they wouldn't... be blamed... for its disappearance. Better still, he could vanish it. Then it'd be his forever, locked away in his mind.

But this thought caused confusion. Something was conflicting with the spell the sword was weaving. A memory from long ago. He struggled to think, focus on either thought and clear his mind.

And then the memory won.


	7. Contract 2 Part 4

"Mort, do you promise?"

"I promise, Teacher. May I be cast back into the depths of Hell if I break it. "

"Good. Now are you listening."

"I'm listening."

Zac leaned in closer.

"You see, Mortis, objects... have a mind of their own."

Mortis blinked. Then raised an eyebrow."Objects think? Right."

"I'm serious lad! Trust me on this; as a veteran thief, I know what I'm talking about. You said the summon/call spell would make stealing easy? You are wrong. Objects have energy; some would call it a will. It's not like ours, they can't actually _think_, as you just put it. But they have a sense of ownership, of whom they belong too."

He rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out his beloved charm. He offered it to Mortis.

"Using the skills you've just learned... well, attempted to learn... try to make this watch vanish. It's been in my possession a long time. See what happens."

The charm itself was a ring within a ring, dangling from a gold chain. Tapping the centre ring would make it spin wildly in any possible direction, creating a strange tinkling noise as it did so. Now, as Mortis reached out to take it, he hesitated. Some gleam in his Teachers eye, the way the charm swung evenly back and forth. He didn't trust it. In truth, he was almost afraid of what might happen.

"It's alright, you won't be harmed," Zac assured him.

Mortis slowly reached out with his hand, brought it back, then reached again. He closed his eyes and concentrated, willing the charm to vanish. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes and looked at Zac. The old man was smiling.

"Try harder"

Mortis obeyed. He focused, concentrated, channelled all his thoughts into making that charm vanish. All at once he sensed a barrier. An invisible wall surrounded the charm, and he got a faint feeling of rejection. Mentally, he could feel the Zac's treasure dodging him, eluding his spell. He opened his eyes and saw to his surprise that physically it was moving to; swinging in wide arcs away from his reach and towards its owner. He dropped his hand and the charm returned to its normal path, back and forth, from the full length of the chain.

Zac chuckled and put his possession back in his pocket.

"Couldn't do it, could ya?"

Mortis shook his head. He was still trying to shake off that feeling of rejection. It didn't feel good. Zac leaned in to continue his lesson.

"Objects can't think, but they know whom they belong to. If someone unknown tries to vanish them, they will resist. That's why only your own possessions can be vanished so easily. In my mind, it's an important rule. Hell, imagine if _everything_ could be vanished so simply. People would be walking around stealing left right and centre and getting away with it, scott free! We couldn't have that."

Mortis nodded. It made a lot of sense.

"So how _does_ one make an object his own?"

"Ah, that's a good question, and one I can't rightly answer. It varies from object to object. If you steal a weapon or ring from a man, it will know. It'll resist you, waiting for its owner to return and claim it. As time passes, whatever type of limited will it has, forgets. That's the best way of putting it. It simply forgets its past, and begins to accustom itself with you. Very soon; it's yours. It might take days, perhaps weeks. But eventually you will be able to vanish it as easy as any other possession."

"Ahh, so the thieving can go on, even if the objects don't like it. Makes you wonder why they don't take revenge sometimes."

"Oooohhhh Morty, don't be so naive. There are some mighty powerful weapons out there. The older they get, the stronger the 'will' becomes. Some are so strong they'll never be vanished. It's like they know that if they allow it, they may be forgotten and they'll never see the light of day again. Just as well; the last thing we need is some senile old dolt vanishing the most finely crafted weapons of our time and then taking them to the grave with him. As for revenge..."

He leaned in very close now, to show how deadly serious the topic had become."Never -ever- vanish an object that opposes you. Especially weapons, they are the most dangerous. You couldn't vanish the charm because you are still learning the art, but someone of a strong mind and skill could do it. When an object that rejects you is vanished against its will... well, you remember how I said no one knows for sure where they go?"

He tapped his temple.

"We're probably more right in our guessing then we think. The item attacks the mind, the memory, everything. If it's a weapon, it may actually do some physical damage, although no one knows how. More likely the object will just pound against your mind, your subconscious, beating you down bit by bit. Like a childhood bully that constantly calls you worthless, slowly, over time, the object will get you. Men have gone completely insane, even taken tools to their skulls in an attempt to get it out. They have to be pretty far gone by then, of course, to forget how to do the call back spell."

Zac leaned back, his lesson complete.

"So now you see; thievery is not all quick wits and fast hands. There are more then just angry owners and vengeful guards to reprimand you. You pick up the wrong item" he tapped his head again; "it might just be the end of you."

Mortis was silent, studying his Teacher with a kind of unwell expression. He stared down at the common items he'd been attempting to vanish. A rock; a sharp, pointy rock. A compass, one of Zac's writing and drawing tools, sporting two needles at the end of each arm. He was beginning to wonder if he wanted this skill at all.

Zac laughed at the concern on his pupils face.

"Never fear boy, an object would have to be pretty nasty to do you any harm. We'll continue the lesson, and by the end you'll be able to pick out a mean one merely by glancing. You see if I'm-"

* * *

Right.

Mortis shook his head and glared at the sword. The spell was fully broken now, and all he saw before his eyes was evil. A twisted, bitter will within an ancient blade. He bent down to read the words carved delicately on a plaque attached to the stand.

"Ali Baba Hassani the 7th – His Greatest Find"

He straightened, still staring at the blade with pure detest.

"It's you, isn't it. You're the one weaving your vile will into the generations of this family. Each one that steps up to the throne claims you as his own, and you drive him further down the path of greed for your own enjoyment. You're a parasite. A blight upon man."

He felt somewhat stupid talking to the sword. If someone had come in they would have believed him mad. But he knew it could hear him, pick up his feelings even if it couldn't understand his words. Its own feelings were in the air. It wasn't rejected, or even angered at losing out to a stronger mind. It was mocking him.

Mortis could feel the laughter. Small children, forming a ring around a loner, pointing their fingers. Laughing. It wasn't a memory, merely an image to emphasize its point. The sword was confident in its place, in its ownership. Mortis sneered and leaned down.

"I could take you, you know. Take you and drop you in the deepest part of the ocean, bury you under a mile of sand. You'd be lost, alone with your own sour will."

_'Do it,'_ it dared him without words; _'take me as your own. You know I'll win. You still want me; I'll bend you to my cause. We could be powerful -oh- so powerful...'_

Mortis was beginning to slip again, reach with his mind. His hand was beginning to rise when a familiar booming voice drifted down the corridor.

"... and bring my sword. You never know with these kidnappers, they can stab you in the back faster then empty your pockets of gold..."

Mortis straightened. The blade intensified its efforts._'Take me. Use me to kill the Sultan and his besotted bloodline, use me to kill the leaders of the Human Zoo. Take me. We could be-'_

"Every bit as corrupt and greed filled as the Sultan himself?" Mortis finished out loud. "You'd like me to do that, wouldn't you? Take you and spill the blood of the whole palace? The town would turn on me for sure, and then we could spill their blood as well. No, my lampreyish friend, you're staying there. The Sultan needs you, and I wouldn't wish to delay his trip by denying him of your presence."

He began to back out of the room. Even though the spell was broken, he found it hard to tear his eyes away until he was well out in the corridor.

"You want to hope the Sultan decides not to take you on this little business journey. 'Cause if he does" he paused long enough to give the sword a lazy eyed smirk, "you won't be having the pleasure of human company again for a long, long time."

He turned down the corridor and headed silently for the stairs.

* * *

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Five horses, pounding across the desert. Rise and fall. Under the cover of night they rode; the Sultan in the middle, four stony faced and silent guards surrounding him.

Abdullah Hassani rode with a grace expected from someone of majesty. Someone who'd been trained by professionals at an early age, someone who could afford luxuries like that as well as a horse birthed from the purest of thoroughbreds. He didn't even need to think about moving in time with his steed, his subconscious did it all for him.

Which was good, because his mind was elsewhere.

Blasted spoilt insolent child. Contemptuous seed of his mother's womb. Ever since Jerhyn had reached the age when he was legally allowed to assume royal duties – commanding guards, slaves, and influencing his decisions on the city – he'd been nothing but trouble.

Help the homeless? Provide loans for struggling business owners, straight from the palace reserves!

Hassani was mad. Furious. Where did his son think money came from? Thin air? The boy hadn't done a days labour in his whole life; he didn't know the meaning of real work.

The fact that the Sultan had led an equally leisure filled life never crossed his mind. He was seething, all thoughts on his son. Plotting, thinking, churning.

He blamed most of the boy's insolence on his mother. She had been a beautiful harem girl; young, free willed, and had a passion for people. It was what drew Abdullah to her. But he let himself be woed by her charms, and didn't realise the effect having a women like this for his Queen would have on his own rule.

She too wanted to use the taxes to help the community. No matter how hard he tried to explain, it never seemed to get through that they were not obligated to do so. The people paid their taxes for the mere privilege of living in the city - if it wasn't for his family they'd be fending for themselves out on the dunes.

But she did it anyway, trafficking money right under his nose. When he discovered the reserves had been dwindling, he immediately suspected it, but instead opted to remain silent. He arranged for his young bride to visit her family, far off in Khanduras.

He smiled silently to himself in the moonlight as they cantered over the sands. Sabre Cats were dangerous adversaries, but even they could be persuaded to put aside old grudges if the price was right. No one would ever find his wife's caravan, that he was sure.

The cliffs of the canyon were drawing near, and he knew the Desert Oasis and Human Zoo lay beyond. Tonight he would be careful about the choosing of his slaves; the last ones were weak and far too obedient. Half the pleasure of having slaves was the chore of breaking them. To Hell with the whines of his son, the Zoo came too seldom to pass up such opportunities.

He patted the sword hanging at his belt. Though they supplied him with workers, and gratefully took the gold that he offered, the Keepers of the Zoo's were not to be trusted. He always took guards, and never went unarmed. Rarely did he take out his family sword, however. It swung loosely on his leg, hilt rising enough with the movement of the horse to reveal the glint of blade inside its sheath.

It was ancient, found on the battlefield of a war long forgotten. Passed down in his family for generations by the great Ali Baba Hassani. And tonight, for some strange reason, he'd felt compelled to take it with him. It felt wrong at first; surely the sight of such a unique weapon would only make the Zoo Keepers even more dangerous. But then he knew that nothing could stand against him while he held that sword. He was a Sultan after all, blessed with the innate ability to fight with skills far beyond the common ruffian. If they attacked him, they would fall by his blade, and that was all.

Darkness passed over him as they entered the canyon. The black, jagged rocks protruding from the walls yearned for the taste of horse-flesh, but the guards knew better. They'd ridden this pass many times, and even in darkness they could navigate more then safely. Stars shone through the long, thin gap high above. Hassani scanned the cliff edges, beginning to feel at peace, the rage towards his son subsiding.

Something caught his eye. A silhouette, briefly back dropped by stars, leaning down the canyon towards them. Then it was gone.

A surge of fear passed through him, but it didn't feel like his own. It came from elsewhere, an outside influence. The sword swung lazily by his leg. The fear lessened, but still remained.

The horse's steps faltered, slowing from a constant gallop to an uneasy trot. The guards grunted with confusion as they fought with the reigns and spurred into their steed's flanks. Hassani's own horse snorted defiantly, aware of the same presence scaring the others but determined not to back down.

A guard cried out as his horse reared high, braying and champing at the bit. It reared again, grappling with invisible hands, and the guard began to fall. But he never hit the ground. A sound like swooping bats echoed down the canyon, and with a rush of wind the guard was snatched out of the air and carried high. Hassani gasped, while the others began to panic.

They watched the two forms; one the flailing guard, the other a huge, winged creature, flying high above the cliffs. Then the guard was released and he fell screaming onto the cliff's edge and out of sight.

Abdullah barked some orders and his three remaining men dismounted or tumbled off their steeds. The horses brayed gratefully for their new found freedom, and fled away into the darkness. The guards raised their spears and surrounded the dark stallion upon which their Sultan sat. All was silent.

The winged beast had disappeared as quickly as it came, but the guards remained focused on the sky.

("What is it?")

("Where's it gone?")

("I can't see… it could be anywhere!)

The whispers were urgent, wavering with concern. Abdullah could see their nervous movements as they scanned the stars. One of them stepped forward suddenly, his voice rising.

"It is a demon. It knows what we've done; what we've _been_ doing. It is retribution on wings!"

"Hold your tongue, soldier" Hassani growled. "It is within our rights –"

"Tell that to the beast!" the guard cried, dropping his spear and pointing to the sky. "He's come to punish us. There will be _no_ mer –"

A shadow on the cliff lashed out, hooking its fingers under the man's jaw. The other guards yelled and hurled their spears as their companion's body was lifted off its feet, but both projectiles hit only stone. The unfortunate victim kicked and gurgled as he was hauled up the cliff, before his jaw snapped apart and he fell. The Sultan allowed himself a sickened groan as the body tumbled back down and hit the sand, spewing vomit and blood in an unstoppable gush.

"The devil is upon us!" cried a remaining guard, and fled the way of the horses. On the sand, the jawless man was trying in vain to crawl after him, but soon collapsed again. His dead eyes glinted dimly in the starlight, appearing to stare straight at the Sultan. Abdullah shifted in his saddle and turned to the last of his men.

"Defend your Sultan. Defend your honour. Die well: your family will be rewarded."

With that he spurred his stallion and galloped down the dark canyon path. The Zoo Keepers would help him. He'd make them pay if they didn't.

* * *

Karhal turned in a slow circle and studied the cliffs. Every ridge or stony abnormality seemed to pose a threat. He'd picked up his spear again and now held it out before him, its sharp tip glowing in the darkness.

He was a big man, and a rigorous training routine ensured he was in peak physical condition. His skill with a spear was almost unmatched among the ranks of the Sultans guards. But the thing he was fighting wasn't a man, and it was a lot more agile then him. His only hope was that his keen eyes would detect its movement before it crept up on him.

In the distance, far down the path from whence they'd come, a scream echoed and then was cut short. Karhal grinned silently to himself. At least the cowardly worm had got his just deserves. He'd never liked men who ran from a fight.

Silence once more. He was the last, the only, the bait for the thing in the shadows. He sneered in the dark, baring his teeth.

"Show yourself, creature. Fight me, man to beast. Let me die the glorious, battle-filled death I desire."

When no reply came, he turned around fast, still scanning the cliffs.

"Creature? Creature! I'm warning y -"

-THUMP-

Something very large landed heavily a few feet away from him, sending up a cloud of sand. It squatted, wings folded protectively around its head until the cloud had settled. Then it slowly stood up.

Karhal gaped.

"Dune Hunter…? I thought it might have been, but then I thought even you wouldn't be crazy enough to assault the Sultan directly."

"Karhal. Good to see you again, but I would have preferred it under different circumstances."

The big man jammed his spear forcefully into the sand and leaned on it.

"Indeed. So: you going to kill me now?"

"That would depend. You follow and serve the Sultan. Do you believe what he does is right?"

"What? You mean getting his slaves from the Human Zoo? He's scum. My own nephew was captured and sold by that wretched business, and if I could I'd kill every last one of them. Alas, it's kinda hard to do that and keep a low profile in a small city like Lut Gholein. No, I hate the Sultan for collaborating with those bastards, but I really have no other choice. Protect him or starve. It's an unfortunate fact."

The Dune Hunter strode over to him, his long shadow and sizeable wings almost filling the path. His golden eyes shone; the only visible part of his face. But soft chuckling told Karhal that his approach was not hostile.

"Good" Mortis said, "That's what I wanted to hear." He took the spear carefully from the human's hands and snapped its tip from the sturdy pole. "Go home now, Karhal. That's a better reward for your family then anything the Sultan could have offered."

Karhal stared at the demons glowing eyes for a minute, then took a step back.

"Make his death swift, Dune Hunter" he said, bowing his head. "And if you can, kill a few of the Zoo Keepers while you're at it."

They both turned at the same time, and headed opposite ways down the canyon path.

"Don't worry" Mortis's voice echoed down towards Karhal, "They've already been taken care of."

* * *

The horse's breath came out in short, moisture-filled snorts. White foam frothed from its mouth, coming off in chunks and leaving a white flecked trail along the path they'd come. The Sultan rode atop his steed with a desperate determination, not daring to look behind. The canyon would end shortly, and then he would be safe.

As if in answer to his thoughts, he burst forth into bright moonlight, leaving the jagged cliffs at last. The desert opened up before him, a glistening silver sea rolling on forever. Palm trees marked the location of the Desert Oasis, not far ahead, and in front of them sat the large barred carriages of the Human Zoo. Abdullah relaxed at last, feeling the tension seep gratefully from his muscles.

But as he drew closer, he could tell something wasn't right here either. Nothing was stirring around the cages. Usually it was hive of activity. Nor were there any wails from the distressed and angry slaves.

He pulled the horse to a jarring halt when he saw the figures lying on the sand, dark puddles leaking out from them. The bars on the cages had been wrenched apart brutally and the slaves set free. He already knew it was too late. Every keeper had been slaughtered, either by the creature or by the slaves themselves once it had freed them. He dismounted and cautiously went to investigate.

The keepers had been bludgeoned or clawed, some tossed into carriages or high into the air so they'd landed at strange angles. All the horses had been taken, and hoof prints led off in the various directions of the homelands those who rode them had been stolen from. He snarled, angry at the fact that he'd lost so many men and slaves in such a short space of time. The creature would pay; he'd make sure of it. The rage was building, fuelled from somewhere within.

Kill the creature. Then hunt down every one of those fleeing slaves and kill them too. Hell, while he was at it he should probably go back to the palace and chop up his insolent son, just to prove his point. No one was going to stand against him. Man or beast, they would fall.

And then he heard it. The sound, ever so softly, like bats gliding on the breeze. It was coming closer, from behind him, and fast. Time slowed. The sound of his own heart thudded in his ears. Breathing seemed oddly loud. His hand was drawn inexplicably towards his side, where it found the hilt of his sword. It was pulsing too, in time with his heart.

The sound came closer. _Not yet._ Closer. _Wait until it is upon us._ So close. _…Us?_ The time was now._ NOW!_

Hassani drew the sword and spun, slashing with all the strength he had. The blade struck something hard, digging deep, and then it sliced through and was free again. There was a cry and a large shape hurtled over him, smashing into the remains of the Zoo cages beyond. Dark droplets sprayed into the air and dripped from his sword. Abdullah felt a grim pleasure sweep over him.

"Hah! So you dare attack a Sultan from behind? How does my blade feel to you, creature? Does its bite burn as bad as the defeat you just faced?"

He wiped the sword with his fingers and flicked them to the sand. Then he advanced on the wreckage his attacker had barrelled into. It was at his mercy now. Man or beast, they would fall before the Sultan of Lut Gholein.

* * *

Mortis groaned and pulled a large splinter from his side. Only seconds before he'd been bearing down on Hassani, ready to fulfil the contract. Then the man had spun so fast and so late that it was impossible for Mortis to dodge that cursed blade. He touched the deep gouge in his chest and grimaced. It wasn't serious, but it hurt like Hell.

Not far off, the Sultan was shouting incoherent things like a loon, his brief success probably exhilarating him. Mortis would put an end to that fast enough, as soon as he could pick his way out of the wreckage. He groaned again as he tossed a heavy metal bar off his legs and removed some wood pinning his wings. The Sultan was walking towards him now, swinging that sword wildly and screaming.

"Flee creature, flee! Crawl back to the cesspit you came from. Run from Hassani!" There was a madness in is eyes that wasn't human. Mortis knew the sword was in control now.

He heaved himself up painfully and leapt from the wreckage onto the roof of one of the intact cages. There he knelt, breathing hard and slowing the flow of blood from his wound. The Sultan reached the cages base and screamed up at him.

"Come down, vile beast! Fight me!"

Mortis glared at him through narrowed eyes.

"I would, but I would not be fighting you."

"Devil talk. Your words mean nothing to me!"

"Feel the rage, Hassani. Is that really your own? Do you really believe that you could take on a Balrog and live?"

"I would take on the Lords of Hell if I could! I am the Sultan. All will fear me!"

Mortis sighed and leaned down towards him.

"If that's what you wish, then –"

"It is! FIGHT ME!"

Abdullah swung the sword and smashed the base of the cage in half. It collapsed in on itself, almost taking Mortis with it. Instead he jumped off and glided to the side, where he hit the sand and came up in a defensives stance.

The Sultan gave an angry scream and charged towards him, slashing and hacking. Mortis easily dodged the first blows, swatting the sword away each time it rang close. He lashed out with a well aimed kick and took the feet out from under the crazed man.

Hassani hit the sand and rolled, leaping back up again in an instant. Mortis was impressed.

"Not bad for a fat man."

The Sultan growled loudly and came for another charge, and Mortis parried and ducked, toying with him. The man was tiring, the sword was heavy, and soon he could end this contract with ease.

"Give up, Hassani. Give up and you'll die faster. You're only prolonging things."

"Shut up devil, silence your cursed words. Die by my blade and be grateful you had the honour!"

He swung in a wide arc, and Mortis caught his arm at the elbow. They wrestled unmoving for a second, each trying to overpower the other, until Mortis began to squeeze.

"Unhand me, beast! Unhan- aah.. ARHH!"

With a loud crack the Sultans elbow splintered and his arm went limp. Mortis released him and watched as he stumbled back, dropping the sword to the sand and holding his useless hand.

"You… you monster… you vile, wretched…" something changed in his features, and he blinked, as if he was seeing things clearly. He glanced around him at the remains of the Zoo, then at the great winged demon before him. Real fear filled his eyes.

"Wh-what… y-you… by the gods!" The Sultan turned to flee, but Mortis was on him in an instant. He drove a light punch into the mans stomach to quell his movements, then held him up straight.

"So, now you see, Hassani. Now you see what before was clouded."

The Sultan merely stared at him, struggling to recover from his winding. Mortis drew his face in close.

"The sword. Its will is stronger then yours; it's stronger then any of your past blood. Your families decay and corruption amuses it, and I believe you've been a fantastic puppet so far." He pointed to the blade lying innocently on the sand. "It's had you, Hassani, fuelling your emotions and driving your greed."

The Sultan regained his voice.

"Yes... yes! It was the sword! Oh gods, I see now. Please, take it away from me. That cursed sword has destroyed my family. Take it away!"

Mortis smiled and his grip on the man's shoulder tightened.

"That might be so. But the sword does not drive one to buy from the Human Zoo. That was you, and your own loathsome desires. You aren't fit to rule, and from what I've seen, your son is a far better man anyway."

"The boy? You're mad! He's weak, useless -"

"He cares about the people, which is what a Sultan should do. Not use the taxes to furnish his own selfish wants. You will not be missed, Hassani."

The man gulped, then glared defiantly into his assailants eyes.

"You are the Dune Hunter. Though I've never seen you, I recognise you from the stories. You won't get away with it" he hissed, "People will suspect you. You'll never be welcome in our city again."

Mortis brought his face close to the Sultans ear.  
"Oh, I think they'll understand. Especially when they find your corpse beside those of the Human Zoo. And one final thing Hassani" his voice became low and sinister, "I've been to Hell. You're wife isn't waiting for you there."

He punched his hand deep into the human's stomach and kept on pushing. The Sultans eyes grew wide and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Mortis took hold of the vitals inside and yanked, pulling his arm and a fair amount of internal organs out with it.

The Sultans staggered, staring in horror at his own insides, before desperately trying to push them back in with his one good hand.

"Won't… get… away…" he gasped, falling to his knees. "Will…… pay."

With a heavy thud he fell to the sand, face buried deep. Mortis stepped on his head to drive it in further.

"Yes, paid a lot in fact." He stooped to pull an emblem off the Sultans turban as proof. "Money well earned, I believe."

Moonlight trickled down, the stars twinkled excitedly. A slain ruler lay among the corpses of evil men, where he belonged. The contract was fulfilled, but the task not fully complete. The demon had one final job to do, as he faced the sword for the last time. He wasn't going to lose.

"I mentioned that if the Sultan brought you, it'd be the last human company you'd see for a long time." Mortis knelt down beside the blade and whispered. "I feel you're fear. You know your fate."

'_You can't destroy me. Nobody can. You don't want to. You aren't strong enough.'_

"I don't need to destroy you," Mortis spoke, "just hide you somewhere humans will never find you again." Using a piece of cloth, he scooped up the sword and cradled it, making sure not to touch the cold steel.

"And I know just the place."

* * *

The gaping hole in the sand yawned at them, a perfectly formed burrow heading down for an unknown length of space. Mortis stood at its entrance and smiled.

"I'm sure you'll find ways to entertain yourself. The minds of Sand Maggotts are easily broken."

'_You can't throw me down there. You won't. You can't. You won't. You can't. You-'_

"I can, and I will."

'_Can't. WON'T. CAN'T. WON'T!'_

The force was unbearable, so desperate was the blade to escape its fate it was trying to break Mortis mind apart more then persuade him. He could feel it beating and tearing for all it was worth. He shook his head, trying to clear its influence.

"Can…. and will…"

'_YOU ARE MINE'_

"To Hell with you, sword."

He bundled it up in the cloth and hurled it, a perfect throw down the angle of the tunnel. He listened to it whizzing and skimming, grinding sand from the walls as it slid further down into the Maggott's darkest lairs. When he could at last hear no more, he was satisfied.

He sighed and dusted the dust from his hands. The wound on the side of his chest stung, but it was healing. He was feeling that strange fulfilment that always occurred after a successful job, as well as the adrenalin slowly seeping away.

Hassani would be found; that he was sure of. But lying next to the ruins of a business as abominable as the Human Zoo would destroy any creditability he had left. Even if the town did suspect Mortis, they would only assume he had a contract on the Zoo and the Sultan had got in the way. Besides, he liked the idea of leaving the man's corpse to become bloated in the sun, and for the vultures to feast on his remains. It seemed somehow fitting.

His final words he had been quite proud of as well, though in truth he had no idea if the Sultan's wife had avoided the eternal torments of Hell. It wasn't like he'd been back to check since he left so long ago. That didn't matter of course, it was the grim satisfaction that came from the Sultans final expression that made the sentiment worthwhile.

Mortis checked to make sure the Sultans emblem sat tightly in his pocket, and took to the air. It would be a nice, leisurely flight back to Lut Gholein, and then he could sit and have a drink with Atma and her husband. Perhaps even have a game with Elzix, though he knew the old rogue would cheat. Braca would meet him on the boat, and tomorrow they would travel to –

"_FOOL! Ignorant, useless fool! What have you done? You've spoilt EVERYthing."_

Mortis came to an abrupt halt mid-air, hovering and looking around urgently. The voice had been within his mind, and for a second he thought the sword may have been calling him from beyond its grave. But this was far different. This was an actual voice, not one he believed he heard. This was a person, contacting him through means similar to the way the Hell Lords controlled their minions.

"Who are you? Where are you?" he spoke to thin air.

"_You ruined it! Ruined it ALL! My plans, my beautiful plans."_

"Stop your whining and answer me!"

"_Fool, fool, foo- … hmmmm… yes… yyeesssss…perhaps it's not too late to remedy this. You may be of more use then I thought."_

The voice suddenly became more formal, as if the whole time it had been speaking to itself more then Mortis. Its words sounded sinister, but not hostile.

"_I apologise for that earlier outburst. You are the Dune Hunter, are you not?_"

"Yes, I am. Who are you?"

"_Not of your concern. Now I shall state my demand:_

_You have committed an act of murder, for which I have witnessed every moment. Should you fail to complete the task I am about to set you, I will not hesitate to spread the details of the deaths of the guards and the Sultan himself to all in the city. You may believe his affiliation with the Human Zoo is enough to keep you from the wrath of the people, but rumours are easily worded. It isn't hard to make a justifiable killing sound like a cold blooded slaughter."_

"How dare you threaten me! Come face me yourself –"

"_Shut up, I'm not finished. I will not have to do such things if you just do as I say. I too wanted to remove the Sultan, but as you did that first and earlier then I desired, you've hampered my plans. Help me execute my new plans, and you'll never hear from me again."_

Mortis thought about this. The mysterious voice had him in a firm grip. He couldn't afford rumours to spread around the city; not only would they ruin his friendship with the people it may jeopardise his contract with Braca. It seemed he had no choice.

"Alright" he said slowly, "I'll help you. But I expect more information soon."

"_All in due time. I am pleased you have decided to co-operate. Fly back past the canyon to the place the city dubs 'the Dry Hills'. I will contact you further then."_


	8. Contract 3 Part 1

Contract 3 – Employer Unknown

He drifted lazily over the dark cliffs below, the gaping black crack in the earth hiding the bodies of those he'd slain in his pursuit of the Sultan. Karhal had hopefully managed to pull up one of the horses for his ride back to the city. It would be a long walk for even the strongest human.

As Mortis cleared the canyon, the great sand dunes of the Dry Hills rose before him. They rolled on forever, like ancient humpbacks in a moistureless sea. The voice had been silent for a while now, giving Mortis time to think about his situation. So many questions already needed answered.

Where was he meant to be going? Who was the owner of the mysterious voice? What was this 'task' it was going to set him? And would the boat with Braca and his next contract wait around for him or would they sail, presuming him to be dead by the Sultan's wilful sword?

A clear snigger revealed that his thoughts were not going unheard.

"_My my my, someone seems like a bit of a control freak. Can't cope with orders when the purpose is unclear, ay? How will you survive in our world?"_

"I've done fine for more centuries then you'd be willingly to wager on," Mortis growled. He'd slowed his flight now, awaiting directions.

"_Oh, I'd be willing to wager. I know quite a bit about you. Let's place a bet. How about… five million gold? That's the reward for the death of the Sultan, is it not?"_

Mortis stopped dead again.

"What did you say?"

"_Oh you heard, 'Dune Hunter'. I know aaalll your dirty little secrets, your employers, your contracts."_

"How?"

"_Let's just say the art of mind probing is a rare but useful skill. I didn't sacrifice a portion of my soul to learn it for nothing."_

"It sounds like you've sacrificed some of your mind as well."

"_Shut up, what would you know."_

There was a long silence, and Mortis was just about to continue over the dunes when the voice spoke again in its formal tone.

_"Fly two miles straight then a mile to your left. There you will see a long forgotten tomb. Await further instructions there."_

Mortis did not reply, but obeyed the directions. The starlight was beginning to fade now, with the first rays of dawn creeping over the horizon. He flew calmly, avoiding thought for the time being. How much information the strange voice had dug out of his mind was unfathomable. And dangerous. Thine enemy should never know you better then you know him.

After a calculated judgement and a winged turn to the left, he saw in the distance, a conspicuous pile of rubble jutting out from the sand. It sat, dark and jagged, obviously worn by unknown eons of wind and sun. The barely visible doorway, half filled with sand, heralded the decent into darkness.

Mortis landed near the entrance and waited for the voice to return. He leaned against a pile of collapsed stone, wings casually folded near his sides, and began to clean the sand from his nails. It really did get everywhere.

"_Wait there," _the voice suddenly boomed; _"the tools for your task are on their way."  
_

Mortis sat up, alert, and scanned the horizon. Something was coming to give him items? Good, maybe he could beat it into telling him who the mysterious voice belonged to.

Nothing came into view for a good many minutes. Then his heightened senses picked up the soft beating of wings and a quiet but constant panting sound. He shielded his eyes from the strange, murky dawn-light and looked to the sky, where he saw a small demon coming his way.

During his long residence in this mortal ruled world, Mortis had rarely seen another demon walking the plains. He found himself staring at the little one before him, as it flapped lightly down at his feet and dropped a scroll. It panted for breath, obviously having flown a long way very fast, and looked up at him curiously.

"You… you demon!" it said at last it a high, squeaky voice. It really was tiny, perhaps only as big as Mortis's hand. The red scaly skin was unlike any the bigger demon had seen. Mortis stooped to pick it up by the scruff of the neck and held it up to study. It didn't struggle.

"And so are you, my little friend. But what species? I've never seen the likes of you in Hell."

"Hell! You been to Hell? Oh, the nights I spend wishing I could visit that place." It was excited, chattering away and tapping its fingernails together; "My master made me. Born from magic, he say. Don't know much more really."

"Ahhh… you're a familiar. Yes I've met a wizard or two that claimed they had demons to help them in their spells, but I'd never seen one."

The familiar's triangular face peered up at him, the big, black eyes filled with curiosity. The tiny, razor shape fangs protruding from its lips created an almost comical buck tooth visage. Mortis turned it around slowly, still holding it by the neck, and frowned.

"But what kind of man can actually summon forth a demon from the mana? This is disturbing. Tell me of your master."

The familiar suddenly became very jittering, and with a sharp twist it pulled itself free from Mortis's grasp. It flew back a short distance then hovered in the air.

"Um… I sorry, but If I tell you anymore, master will dispel me. I must return. He'll talk to you shortly on how to use the scroll and pentagram." Then it turned and flapped quickly away over the dunes.

Mortis watched him go, both somehow comforted by the presence of another demon and disturbed by the man who created it. A man who was now commanding him as well.

He picked up the scroll and a small silver pentagram fell into his palm. It was warm to the touch, and Mortis felt the uneasy feeling in his stomach quicken. Whatever the voice had in mind, it was not good. The sign of the cross, now that would be less worrisome. But a pentagram…

"_Never mind about that, I guarantee you'll come to no harm. I'm pleased my pet found you successfully. Not the brightest of task handlers but they do the job right."_

"You have more of these… home-made demons? Of the same species?"

"_Oh Baal's balls, of course not! I have everything from vampires, to wraiths, to those very amusing Ratmen that I bred personally from the Zakarum Children in Kurast. You'd be impressed by my collection."_

Mortis's heart froze. He very suddenly wanted to be rid of this voice, and fast. A man with such capabilities, and with as little restraint as he portrayed, could be a very, very dangerous individual.

"You better be telling me the truth when you say you'll vanish once I complete this task. Because if we ever cross paths…"

"_Oh, don't worry about that. Once you've done what I require, I plan to be somewhere _very_ safe and out of reach. Even the Gods of Heaven and Lords of Hell won't be touching me."_

"For your own sake, I hope you're right. What you are doing is forbidden by nearly every fundamental law. There will be forces with power you can't even imagine after you."

"_That's for me to worry about and for you to just do what I say."_

Mortis instinctively snarled and flexed his fingers, wishing for the soft feeling of raw flesh under his nails.

"Fine. Then let's get this over with."

"_Agreed. This tomb is known as 'The Halls of the Dead'. It used to be the burial ground for many families in the city, but it has long since been abandoned. On the second level at the far south end, you will find a lone chamber, containing one sarcophagus. I'll give you the last of your needed orders when you 'think' you've found it. E-heh."_

Mortis snorted, and the voice was gone. He glanced quickly at the strange words on the scroll, at the warming pentagram, and at the looming entrance to the Halls before him. He sighed. Then stepped into darkness.

* * *

"It's alright, lad, it's meant to be this dark. We're not going to be ambushed. It's just to deter the average citizen from wandering in by mistake."

Mortis paused a couple more seconds in the doorway, then walked into the black corridor. Zac groped behind him. Demon eyes could adjust quite quickly to the dark, but the old man needed more time. Mortis led him down to the end, where a large steel door blocked their path.

"Pull on the chain," Zac said; "It should be hanging to your right."

Mortis looked up, spotted the chain, and gave it a hard tug. A dull 'dink dink' sounded, and a slot suddenly opened in the door. Two beady eyes peered into the darkness, squinting to make out their silhouettes.

"Password?" the man behind the slot said gruffly.

"Open it now before I slit your throat from ear to ear," Zac answered.

"Granted," came the reply, and with a loud 'chang' and some ear piercing screeches, the door slowly began to open. Light flooded into the hallway, and Zac gave Mortis a push to get him inside.

The room inside would have been spacious, if it wasn't jam packed full of furniture and spittoons. A rustic old organ sat in one corner, the man playing it banging away as If he couldn't hear the out of tune notes it was producing. More men sat at the tables; rough, weather beaten men, murmuring away in low voices. Drinking ale or playing cards. The air was thick with cigar smoke.

Mortis had seen Zac smoke these strange, leaf-made objects before in his hut. He thought they smelled bitter and vile, and now in this room where even the oxygen had to battle for space, he couldn't help but grimace.

They were an ugly group; scarred, missing eyes, fingers and reeking like they'd slept with the barn animals. One looked up from his card game as they entered and grinned a toothless grin.

"Ay, what's this then Zac? You got yourself a bodyguard or somethin'?"

"Nah, this be me boy! Mortis, meet the crew; the most respected and feared Thieves Guild in Khanduras."

The men all looked up from their business, paused, then roared in laughter.

"Your boy, Zac?" a thief with an eye patch chortled; "Who's the mummy, a vampire bat?"

"You really are a riot," said a rogue with a limp behind them. He slapped Zac hard on the shoulder, not enough to hurt but enough to make him stumble forward. The old man smiled and laughed hoarsely.

"Easy, Dreg, I'm not as young as I –"

-WHUMP-

Mortis, not understanding the quirks of human interaction and friendship at this point in time, had grabbed the man by his filthy shirt and pinned him firmly against the wall. A silent snarl was on his face, and he looked ready to rip the man's heart out.

The organ stopped suddenly with a single chorus of ugly notes, and the room was alive with the new sounds of scraping chairs and readying weapons. Crossbows, throwing knives, and even a short sword or two were drawn and pointing in Mortis's direction. He looked at them all, still snarling, and didn't release the man.

"Put him down, Mortis," Zac said softly, smoothly. He put a hand on the big demons arm and slowly pushed it; "He meant me no harm."

Mortis gave a final glare at the thief who'd hit his friend, and dropped him. He turned around, wings closing in and out, trying to force himself to step back from the edge.

"Everyone," Zac started, "this is Mortis. And yes, he's a demon from Hell. Anyone have a problem with that?"

Silence. One man finally piped up.

"What if we do?"

"Then you can feel free to take it up with me any day," Zac said coldly. The thief went silent.

"Right," Zac continued, "Mortis has been my pupil, and I think he's almost ready to take part in a raid. What have we got planned for the future?"

A young rogue, perhaps in his early twenties, stepped forward.

"There's a caravan belonging to a rich family coming through the pass soon. Some of us thought we might pop 'em a visit. Lotsa shiny trinkets on that one I'm bettin'."

A few jeers and snorts of laughter followed his statement, then went quiet again. An older thief next to the speaker spoke up.

"Yeah, and if we're lucky maybe a juicy daughter or two as well."

"Shut your trap, Jake," Zac said sharply, cutting off any agreement from the rest of the guild; "You know better then that."

He placed his hands flatly on a table, and leaned in towards the grubby group of thieves around him. To Mortis, it reminded him of a daily lesson. But the way the men went deathly quiet, lips sealed in thin lines and eyes wary, Mortis could tell it meant much more to them.

"Even the thieves have rules to abide by," Zac stated, "We are not ruffians. We are collectors. We seek out and steal the most valuable items we can find, because we enjoy the challenge of its acquisition. It is a game. No one should get hurt. We threaten, we scare, but in the end we will only kill if we have too. If our own lives are in immediate danger, for example. And we never," his expression darkened even further, "_never_ hurt women. Goes for children too.

The thieves muttered and nodded their agreement.

"And don't let me catch you chatting about it neither," Zac added.

The men began to pick up their cards and cigars again, the lecture they'd heard perhaps every time Zac visited, over once again. Later on, the loud mouth who'd mentioned the 'juicy daughters' would be suitably punished for his brashness.

"Well, anyway," the young thief started again, cautiously, "if he wants to join us on that raid, he can meet us at the pass tomorrow afternoon. We'll show him the ropes. Though I don't think a big guy like him is going to be much good at stealth work."

"You'd be surprised," Mortis said, speaking for the first time. "I may not be well versed in human activities, but I've had a good many years of practised hunting with the beasts of the woods." He narrowed his eyes coldly and scanned over all the faces watching him through uneasy eyes. "I won't slow you down."

"Good then!" Zac said, signalling the door man to open it for them to leave; "We'll see you boys tomorrow. Don't gamble away all your chips tonight."

The cards players chuckled and continued their game. The drinkers clinked drinks and downed them, ready for more. Mortis followed his tutor from the room back into the dark hallway, and they walked the passage together.

"I don't like them," Mortis said after awhile. "They don't feel right."

"Oh, that's just first impressions. They never jump to welcome anyone new to the guild, and this is the first time a non-human has asked to do so. It was a better reaction then I expected."

Mortis nodded silently. He still felt on edge, and he supposed he always would around men like that. A constant, paranoid feeling that one would plunge a knife into your back the second you turned it.

"You'll get used to them, as will they to you," Zac said calmly, reading Mortis's thoughts from the look on his face. "In time, you'll see they're just like other people, just hardened by years of a career that's social unaccepted. It isn't the easiest living to make, even harder if you aren't skilled at it. And there's no telling how much share of the loot you'll get if you go on these joint raids. It's a dog eat dog world."

"I think I'd prefer to work with the dogs," Mortis grumbled. Zac laughed.

"Just remember not to bite the hand that feeds you…"


	9. Contract 3 Part 2

"_Wise words if I've ever heard them."_

"Shut up, voice. Get out of my head. My memories are for my mind only."

"_If you say so. Though I must say, I'm having a ball here digging through your pre-Sanctuary past. Did the Hell Lords really make their demon armies commit such atrocities?"_

"Yes. They did. Are you happy now? Tell me what you want me to do."

Mortis stood in a large, dark room around two floors below the surface. In the centre sat a coffin; old, but not ancient. Perhaps around the time of the Horadrim. The stone figure carved into the top of the lid lay with its arms crossed over its chest, its features warn away by time and centuries of guano from the resident flying mammals. Mortis wasn't sure, but he could almost feel something still lurked inside.

"_Open it,"_ commanded the voice

Mortis took a step forward and hesitated. The pentagram he held firmly in his hand was pulsing heavily, beginning to scorch into his thick skin. The feeling of a 'presence' within the coffin was growing, as if responding to its throbs.

"Are you walking me into a trap, voice? Because if you are, and I survive… you better hope this safe-haven of yours is as impenetrable as you believe."

"_It's not a trap, my trusty pawn. You've fought to long and hard to be ended by something as pathetic has hidden blades or poison gas. Open the coffin. You're task is nearly at an end."_

Mortis hesitated a few more seconds, his mind twirling like the ancient dust in the tomb around him. Then he stepped up to the lid and gripped its edge.

"Only one way to see if your word is true," he growled, and heaved against the worn stone. At first, it refused to budge. Mortis strained until the veins in his forehead bulged, but all he succeeded in doing was digging trenches into the sandy floor with his clawed feet. He paused for a second to regain his strength, and heard the voice whispering. It sounded far away.

"…_when the walls between Worlds have crumbled, where will the Demons be? Will the Angels walk among men, or will they fade willingly from existence because of their arrogant pride. The strength of all is limited only by the strength of will…"_

Mortis blinked. It didn't sound as if the voice was talking to him. In fact, it didn't even sound like the same voice. Yet its words seemed to give him renewed energy, and with a silent snarl he pulled back his arms and rammed his whole body against the lid.

It shifted with an almighty groan, shaking sand from the ceiling and sending vibrations up Mortis's arms to his shoulders. The lid scraped to a halt halfway across, but he was determined to move it for good now. He pushed again, and it slid the rest of the way off with relative ease. It hit the ground with a dull 'thud', and cracks spider webbed over the aged stone instantly.

Panting softly, he leaned against the sarcophagus with senses on full alert. But nothing leapt out at him. No vengeful wraith crawled out to drain his soul, no spidery fingers clawing for his flesh. The 'presence', or whatever it was he had sensed, had fled with the passing lid, and only silence remained. He finally relaxed, and peered cautiously over the coffins rim.

Dust.

He should have guessed as much. A coffin as old as this… but then he paused. The coffin wasn't that ancient. Corpses had survived for thousands of years, sealed within air tight catacombs, and this tomb was certainly not that old.

He reached tentatively into the sarcophagus, and scooped his fingers through the dust. It wasn't chunky, or riddled with the remains of burial dressings. It was fine, soft, silty. Whoever had been in here, he suspected had been burned. Scorched to ashes and then ground as small as he could possibly get.

This had not been revered a revered person, and if he had been respected, it was for all the wrong reasons.

"_Now, place the pentagram in the sarcophagus, and step away."_

Mortis looked at the glowing symbol in his palm, the way it thrummed and pulsed with what seemed like eagerness, and then placed it gratefully on top of the dust. He waited a few seconds to see if anything else would happen, and when nothing did he took some steps back.

"Is that it? I came all this way to place a demonic symbol on a pile of dust?"

"_Don't be daft, you poor excuse for a flying monkey. The scroll!"_

Mortis looked at the piece of paper still clenched in his other hand and rolled his eyes. Spells and potions, scrolls and symbols. All part of a wizard's daily diet, and mere drivel to everyone else. He was an assassin for Hell's sake, not a sorcerer's apprentice. He unrolled the scroll and scanned his eyes over the strange letters again.

"I can't read this crap," he snarled.

"_Upside down, stupid,"_ came the response.

He turned the scroll right way up and the letters suddenly formed a language he understood. It wasn't a common one, that he knew, and if his old teacher hadn't had such a passion for archaic texts he might never have had the knowledge needed to read it.

"…This is the ancient language of the Summoners. What will I be summoning… and why?"

For once the voice didn't answer, not even a cheeky remark. Mortis waited.

"Well?"

At last, the voice spoke again, but it was different this time. Quiet. Pleading. Mortis was unsure if it was sincere.

"_You are in no danger. This is for my cause, and won't affect your being in any way. Please, just read the scroll and you'll never hear me again."_

Mortis sighed, giving in. He looked over the letters for the last time, and began to read. The words were strange, full of power. As he spoke, the pentagram in the coffin began to glow, brighter and brighter as he drew closer to the end of the scroll.

With the final words - _Reanimatrious Corporulos _- the coffin gave a shudder, and a bright flash came from the small metal trinket within. The pentagram became liquid in an instant, and began to melt into the dust. Tiny droplets of glistening metal rolled along the powdery contents, before dissolving from sight altogether.

Mortis waited. Whispers began to fill the tomb; ghostly, haunting whispers. A breeze began to stir the sand at his feet.

"Voice?" he asked. But his tormentor was silent.

The breeze began to localise around the coffin, stirring the dust and howling a gale. Sand whipped through the air, stinging his eyes and forcing him to take cover behind a raised arm. The whispers and wind, mixed with unearthly groans coming from within coffin, made the whole experience seem like an eerie and unpleasant dream.

At last the storm settled, the wind dieing from a roar to a sigh and then to the delicate pitter-patter of falling sand. Mortis lowered his arms and peered out through squinted eyelids.

Something was in the sarcophagus.

What ever he'd summoned was alive; he could hear raspy breaths and low, guttural moans. A single, decaying hand reached up and gripped the stone side - gripping and flexing - as if getting used to the feel of something solid once again.

Mortis edged forward, curiosity flaring. The breathing rasped louder, interrupted by a dry cough. Dust flew from the coffin and hung in the air above. Mortis drew close, paused, and then peered inside.

What lay within wasn't human, but it may have been once. Its thin, fleshless legs quivered and twitched, the one outstretched arm continued testing the edge of the coffin. The other arm was missing all together, from the shoulder down. A poorly bandaged chest revealed hollow ribs and shrunken, dried up organs. Only one thing moved inside; a large black beetle, making its home within the creature's liver.

And the face.

If that's what it could be called. It was malformed, oversized. A hideous, bulging skull, with teeth almost the length of his fingers. Its gaping black eye sockets stared up at him as the jaw hung open, panting groans and coughs. It raised its rotting hand slowly upwards and pointed a single bony finger.

"_Aroona cask mentaro?"_ it asked in a voice drier then desert sun. It seemed to be gaining strength, the breathing regulating, and when it returned its hand to the side of the coffin, it was able to lift itself slowly to sitting position. Bones creaked in response, pieces of dry flesh slaking off in clumps.

Mortis stepped back, unsure of its intent, but when it finally sat upright it merely let out a groan that sounded like relief. It cradled its head with the rotted hand, gazing oddly at its chest and legs. Then it turned towards him.

"_Aroona… aroona cask mentaro! Aroona cask MENTARO!_" it cried, its voice strengthening all the time. Mortis took a step back further towards the exit.

"Voice, what is he saying? I can't understand him, the tongue is too strange."

The voice did not reply.

The creature, however, was becoming strong enough to climb its way out of the sarcophagus. It rested uneasily on its arm, swung one leg over the edge, then another, and dropped to the sand with a thump. Mortis could see more beetles scurrying around inside him, nesting in the peeled scalp and exposed windpipe. Sure that it was going lunge at him any second, he held out a palm in a defensive 'stop' motion.

"Wait. I don't know what you're saying, but I can guess: you want to know who revived you, correct? And maybe why?"

The creature leant against its death bed, swaying slightly. Its empty eyes stared blankly at him.

"Well, yes, I am the one who revived you," Mortis continued, hoping to bide for time, "I did so on behalf of another. I know not what he wants you for, I was forced into this." He took another step back. The creature didn't move.

"_Do… doskara une tasket?"_ It questioned.

"I don't know. I don't understand you're tongue." He studied the confused shaking of the creatures head, the way it kept looking at its hand and legs. "Who… are you?"

The creature glanced up at him, then at the ceiling. It stared for a long time, as if thinking. And suddenly its whole appearance changed. It pushed away from the coffin and stood straight, its true height being taller then Mortis himself. What remained of the dried skin around its jaw twitched, and Mortis saw at once that the being was grinning. It looked at him sideways, the dumb, sleepy confusion all but gone. It knew who it was, and it was pleased to remember.

"_Raaaa….ddaaaa….ment,"_ it said, the voice slow and sinister. Mortis had reached the doorway now, and was debating whether to flee or stand fast.

"_RADAMENT!"_ boomed the voice of the Summoner, the being who had requested the task of Mortis. It filled the whole tomb, and by the way the creature flinched Mortis knew it was no longer in his head alone.

"_Radament, Mage of Old, you were condemned to death by your Horadrim brethren for the atrocity of cannibalism. I offer you a second chance at life. Serve my cause, and you will feast on more human flesh then you can ever imagine. Now go, back to the city of Lut Gholein where they put you to the flame while you still breathed. Go, and use their bodies to revive further your once glorious form."_

Radament's jaw opened in a hideous smile, his blackened tongue snaking out over his teeth. He raised his arm over his head in triumph, and bellowed.

"_FEAST AMORAY VON CAVI-SLAN!"_ he screamed. Then slowly brought his arm down and faced Mortis.

Mortis listened in shock to the Summoners words, not wanting to believe what he'd been forced to do. The creature standing before him wanted human flesh; hence his safety was assured as the Summoner had said. But if that was the case, Radament was never going to leave this room.

Mortis spread his wings and arms to block the doorway behind.

"You aren't going anywhere, you undead heathen," he growled.

Radament did not reply. Instead, he merely started walking towards Mortis. The demon prepared to attack… but suddenly noticed that the creature was shrinking - no, not shrinking, as much as _melting_ - into the sand beneath them. In seconds, Radament had dissolved back into the dust from whence he'd come, and a rolling wall of sand was all that remained.

Mortis lunged forward as it drew near, swiping at it with his claws. His hands passed through as effectively as if he'd been swatting wind. The sand wall rolled past him – _through_ him – and up into the darkness of the corridor behind. Dismayed, Mortis could do nothing but give chase.

* * *

At the entrance to the Halls of the Dead, Mortis saw Radament's physical form for the last time. Only the devastation he would reap would speak of the creatures passing.

Mortis burst out of the tomb into broad daylight, the morning sun now high in the sky. The ancient, cannibalistic Mage stood looking at its orange, glowing face, that odd grin on his own. How long had it been since he was burned alive? Long enough to forget the feel of the suns warmth, Mortis guessed.

He strode cautiously to within a few feet of the decayed beast, and called out softly.

"Radament. Don't do it. Why prolong your unlife? Why make so many suffer for your own needs? You paid for your sins with fire; you needn't condemn yourself to Hell. Return to sleep, and the eternal darkness of death. Be at peace again"

He waited, to see if his words would have any affect. Radament only looked at the sun for a longer time. When he did finally turn his head, Mortis could see he was struggling with something. He opened his jaws, and the black tongue wiggled oddly.

"_When… the walls… between… Worlds… have crumbled… where... will the Demons… be?"_ Radament rasped, speaking with the slow effort of someone using a language not native to their own. Mortis thought for a second that perhaps that response meant he wouldn't go through with the Summoners plan. But then the face twisted into that evil, opened mouth smile.

"_I… will… feeassstttttt."_

He let out an inhuman howl, arm outstretched worshipfully towards the sun. He was already beginning to dissolve.

"_NO!"_ Mortis cried, and charged towards the melting figure. He collided into Radament – too late - and passed straight through. His momentum carried him a few more feet, before he landed on his face hard. The last thing he saw before the sand-wall rushed over him, filling his eyes with grit, was the morning sun glinting off the Palace of Lut Gholein, far away in the distance.

"By the Lords of Hell and the Gods themselves," he wept, pawing at his eyes and coughing through sand choked lungs. "What have I done?"


	10. Contract 3 Part 3

Greiz leaned on his spear, dozing slightly and trying to ignore the dull ache inside his skull. He and Greglash had been up quite late last night, enjoying Atma's brews and the arguments it brought forth. They never did resolve whether Sand Leapers were rodents or reptiles.

He wiped some sweat from his brow and coughed up a wad of phlegm, which he hawked casually on the cobblestones. The taste of alcohol was still ripe in his mouth, and his tongue felt dry as cotton.

A sudden scream took him from his personal qualms, and his head snapped around to look at the great stone arch of the city entrance. The guards usually posted there, bored and complacent, now lay dead under the arches shadow. Pools of blood seeped into the sand from their wounds, and dripped from the bony claws of the creature standing over them.

Greiz's first thought was one of disbelief.

'_No,'_ he thought; _'it's daylight. No evil such as this ever comes during the day. They sneak and kill, cowardly, in the night. This is _morning_!'_

But as the creature bent to the bodies lying beneath him, and ripped the right arm from one, reality was very quickly beginning to sink in. The beasts bulging face grinned as it placed the freshly torn arm to his own rotting shoulder, and Greiz watched as spidery tendons and ligaments crept out to bind the new flesh to old.

The creature gave a happy, gurgling moan, and raised its new arm, testing it. It was somewhat smaller then the other, but Greiz could see the dark magics holding the creature together were already beginning to alter it to suit. A small hoard of black beetles scurried from between its exposed ribs and burrow gleefully into the fresh meat. Greiz couldn't help but gag with repulsion.

A shout rang out down the street, as some patrolling guards spotted the monstrosity. It turned towards them, its hollow eyes scanning. Upon sight of its visage, the guards all but dropped their spears in horror, and an unearthly roar succeeded in sending them fleeing for cover.

Greiz, freed from his paralysis at last, knew this was not a fight he'd want to face alone. He took a last look at the slain guards at the gate, and bolted for the barracks. He could only hope the men were prepared for what they were about to face.

* * *

The over sized, toothy mouth of Radament grinned with pleasure as he left the corpses behind and began to amble down the street. Man flesh; oh how he'd feast today.

* * *

Mortis staggered in darkness. Blind. In pain. The dust of Radament was not like ordinary sand; it wriggled and burrowed, irritated and burned. He needed water, and fast, before his eyes fell to pieces in their sockets.

He'd heard a cry not long ago, and had used that alone to guide his steps. Flight while blind was impossible, and running in sand much the same. Yet, out of the darkness, images were beginning to form. Only mere flashes, and accompanied by no sound. But he saw them none the less.

The stone arch of Lut Gholein. A terrified, screaming face, filling his vision. Blood. Another, larger, man, running up a street, and many more fleeing. And most horribly, something he recognised well, something he'd feared the second he'd heard the Summoners commands to his newly revived minion.

The swinging sign of drinking tavern.

Finding his way to the gates was easier then expected; the screams had been more frequent and louder the past few times. Mortis lent against the weathered stone and listened. Feet, people crying, the sounds of guards and their shouted orders. And above all the, the sound of a woman wailing. It was chaos in the streets.

He staggered, groping his way along, searching for the town square by memory alone. An empty bucket dropped carelessly found the shin of his foot, and he stumbled to a painful halt upon the cobblestones. He knelt there, grinding his teeth against the throbbing, angry red in his knees and eyes. And then a voice spoke in his ears.

"… Dune Hunter? Dune Hunter, it is you! Thank the gods."

A strong arm gripped his shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

"Stand fast, we need your – " A pause. A gasp. "Your eyes, Dune Hunter what on Sanctuary happened to your eyes?"

Mortis could only choke out a reply.

"Water… please. I need it _now_!"

The strong arms obeyed, leading him so fast and steady Mortis felt as if he were being carried. And suddenly his face was under the cool water of the town well. He shook his head, rubbed frantically at his eyes, and drank all at the same time.

He pulled himself out and gave a long, gasping breath. Blinking, he saw light, then figures, then the world reappeared. Though his eyes felt sore, the dust of Radament and been thoroughly washed away. His sight had thankfully returned.

The strong arms spun him.

"Greiz!" he cried, seeing the face of his saviour.

"Snap out of it, lad!" the gruff, pale faced soldier cried. "You may be our only chance. There's a beast loose in the city, and it's the shit-ugliest thing you've ever seen."

Mortis straightened immediately; able-eyed and ready to tear.

"Where did it go?" he snarled.

"It came in through the gates, in broad daylight! I could barely believe me peepers. Killed two of me guards like that!" he snapped his fingers in front of the demons face. "Then it headed to the tavern –"

Greiz never got to finish his sentence. Mortis was gone.

He knew it was too late, even before he saw the blood trailing out of the tavern doorway. The woman's wail, so desperate and forlorn, rang out over the whole city. A drunk's body hung half way through a window, his head split and leaking onto the cobblestones. But it was the tiny leg, adorned with a child's sandal, that nearly broke Mortis's mind right there and then.

He wanted to kill, anyone or anything, but then grief hit him like a Wendigo's fist and all he wanted to do was sit and mourn his losses. The wail droned on endlessly, a cascading lament mimicking his own emotional turmoil. He found his eyes following the trail of blood, up the street where more of the slain lay. Many were dismembered, missing strips of flesh or appendages. Many he recognised. Many had been his friends.

At the far end, Greiz had mustered what remained of his guards and was urging them, one by one, through an open trap door.

"Get down there boys; teach that flesh eating bastard you can't chew on the Desert Mercenaries," he bellowed. He looked down the street and met Mortis's eye; "Come if you can, Dune Hunter, we'll need all the help we can get."

Greiz followed his men down into the sewers below, where the Undead murderer had fled, dragging the skins of his prey. Mortis stood alone in a city of the slain, their loved ones wails fading to mere sobs. He ground his teeth till they felt fit to crumble. He looked up at the morning sun and screamed.

"Voice! Summoner! What have you done? Why did you force me to unleash this horror? You promised I wouldn't be hurt. You couldn't have injured me more with a weapon!"

The silence the voice had maintained since its final orders to Radament persisted, infuriating Mortis all the more. He took a step towards the open trapdoor, resolving to utterly destroy at least one source of his pain.

A hum of electricity filled the air, making his senses prickle wildly. He hissed and peered around, expecting a sorcerer's spell to strike him at any second.

"_EUREKA!" _the voice boomed in his ears; "_The gate to the Arcane Sanctuary is opening!"_

"What are you doing, Summoner?" Mortis snarled, "What is this Arcane Sanctuary? Is it the reason why the city had to suffer?"

Now the voice was back, it seemed more then willing to dispense its usual teasing factoids.

"_Oh, you poor deluded demon. You child of a deceitful, evil world. You've lived in Sanctuary more then two centuries, and still you know so little about human behaviour."_

"I know enough to kill them more efficiently then any other creature. Come forth and I'll show you."

"_I think not. But I'd like to thank you for your… invaluable services. Your current employer isn't paying you nearly enough. Without you, I never would have had the time to open the gate."  
_

Dark realisation fell over Mortis's heart like crows on carrion.

"Radament… he wasn't your grand plan. He was a distraction."

"_And the last camel crosses the Oasis. Well done, and you didn't even hurt yourself thinking it up."_ The voice paused to let out a laugh that was somewhere between a giggle and a snort; _"Radament did his job well. Perhaps you've noticed by now that every available guard has chased him to the sewer. Nobody remains to protect the gates. Even the palace lies empty…"_

Mortis didn't need the seconds he was given for that information to sink in. He was already marching towards the palace entrance with terrifying purpose. His arms lashed out as he went, tearing chunks from walls in his fury.

"_Oh yes, please come and visit. I'm dying to meet you in person."_

"You'll be dying alright."

"_You're as pig-headed as the Sultan. I'm so glad you did me the favour of killing that bulbous lout. That bloated tick on the buttocks of society."_

"Why didn't you do it yourself, with your damnable home-made demons?"

"_Fool. You really think I'd bring my pets out to play in full sight of the Royal family? I'd be executed on the spot! A Sultans Vizier can never dapple in arts that could threaten his master's life."_

Mortis had entered the palace, descending the spiral staircase as he'd done the night before. The rooms and corridors proved to be as luxurious as ever, but far more quiet now. He glided from doorway to doorway, ready to pounce, rend, tear the treacherous voice right from its owner's throat. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place now, thanks to the Summoner's deliberate hint dropping.

"Why stop there? I'm enjoying this entourage of how stupidly I played into your hands, really I am."

"'_Really, you am', ay? Well, if you insist, I will indulge. Did you perhaps ever think about the consequences of slaughtering a Sultan?"_

Mortis didn't reply. In truth, he hadn't. Braca's contract, the opinions of the people, and the purity of the Sultan's son seemed justification enough to remove Abdullah permanently. There really seemed to be no other factors to consider.

"_How about protection?"_ the Summoner replied, reading Mortis's thoughts. _"Did it ever cross your confused little mind that the Sultan's son might _not _be more then a pampered child? His heart may be in the right place, true, but there's a big difference between one's desires to help, and one's abilities to do so."_

Mortis was beginning to feel more and more uneasy with the Summoners words. He _hadn't_ considered Jerhyn's abilities. The process of learning was different for all humans, this he knew, but he'd assumed that because Jerhyn was of age, he was ready to take the throne. Or down-filled King size bed, in this case.

"What vital skills could he be missing?" Mortis said curiously. This harem level did indeed seem deserted, but a static energy thrummed from the floor beneath his feet. "You're in the basement, aren't you?"

"_Run, run, run, as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the Summoning Man!"_

The voice burst into a fit of laughter, mocking and cruel, that drove Mortis into a frenzy. He forgot about stealth, about scouting each room. He found the stairs leading to the next floor, and hurtled down them like a wild thing.

"_What skills could he be missing?"_ the voice continued to muse. "_Hmmm… let's see… how about; basic military procedures? The Sultan allowed his son to order the guards around, but the lad doesn't know the first thing about strategy. How do you think he'd handle an invading force? Send wave after wave of men into the fray?"_

"A point I'm sure you plan to take advantage of."

"_Despite the dimly lit interior of your skull, you do have moments of surprising perceptiveness. Yes, I'm counting on young Jerhyn's inexperience. My pets are very eager to meet him."_

Mortis pelted through the cellars, barging over barrels and spilling wine darker then blood. The electric hum was closer, louder, buzzing inside his head.

"Where are you? Do you still hide like an urchin beneath stone?"

"You're_ still a level too high. I await you, my blue friend, but a stairwell away. And don't dwell too much on the future of the Hassani Empire. If it doesn't fall to me, it will fall to someone else. Without the Sultan, even a tightly organised band of desert thieves could overthrow the city. In fact, I believe I heard rumour of a Hell Lord coming this way…"_

An image of the strange man at the Kanduras tavern, his head lolled and mouth opened wide, flashed into Mortis's mind. A shiver went down his spine.

"You're… you're in league with…?"

"_Never! The Hell Lords condemn my actions as much as man or Angel, you know that. I am an outcast, an interloper, unwelcome in all worlds but the one I am about to ascend too. There I will be safe to continue my research, to follow in the footsteps of the greatest Summoner of all; Horazon."_

The voice waited for Mortis's response, but the demon was too focused on working his way through the cellar to respond. Besides, Horazon was a name that meant nothing to him. The Summoner snorted in disgust.

"_Never mind. You just hurry your way down here. But don't expect to stop me. I've spent far too many years, bowing to that odious Sultan, to be foiled now. It took nearly a decade alone to rebuild this portal, far beneath the palace floors."_

Mortis found the stairs and flew down, sliding carelessly on dust covered steps. He guessed that the cellar this far down was rarely visited, and so perfect for a treacherous Vizier to conduct his experiments. The electric buzz had become a crackle of lightning, and an eerie blue light leaked around the door he now stood before.

He bared his teeth, gripped the handle, and then smashed the door from its hinges.

For a second he was blind again, not in darkness, but pure light. He shielded his eyes and tried to see through the glare. A glowing portal shimmered in the centre of the room, both beautiful and chilling to look at directly. A chuckle drew his attention from the wavering dimensional rift to a strangely dressed figure standing beside it.

"We meet at last, oh mighty Dune Hunter," the figure said. His flowing blue robe shimmered and swam in the light of the portal, creating a universe within a universe effect in the flawless cloth. Mortis stood in the doorway, his gold ringed eyes shining.

"Indeed," he snarled, "the pawn corners the King."

The Summoner laughed again, and Mortis saw the face that wasn't a face. A mask of metal covered the man's features completely. The wide grinning mouth and eyes were mere black holes, carved into a comically smiling visage. It reminded Mortis of the clown masks humans wore during certain annual festivities.

"Check, but not mate. No chessboard ever comes equipped with one of these," the man replied, gesturing to the portal.

Mortis blinked, and to his surprise he saw the mask had changed. It no longer grinned with smiling eyes. Now it leered at him with smug satisfaction.

"I'm glad we could meet before I leave. Face to face, human to demon."

"That's no face you wear," Mortis replied.

"Well, if we're going to get picky; you're not exactly wearing your true face either."

Mortis's eyes widened. The knowledge of this man was frightening to behold.

"Oh, don't act so surprised!" the mask said, changing to a look of sympathy, "I know all your secrets, like I said before. That basic glamour spell you wear to make your face appear more human; it isn't exactly hard to detect. Even for unskilled eyes."

Mortis spread his wings in reply, and took a step forward.

"You're going to pay for the guards Radament killed. For the innocent city dwellers that crossed his path. And... and for…" he choked on the a lump welling in his throat. "And for _killing Atma's boy,_" he screamed at last. _"He'd barely begun to live. Do you feel no remorse, you demon whoring sonovabitch?"_

Mortis cradled his head in his hands, thick sobs escaping through his fingers. When he looked up at the now solemn mask, his eyes were burning with fury. Trickles of flame leapt from his fingers.

"You. Will. _Burn!"_

With one fluid motion, he thrust his hand forward, and suddenly the room was alive with orange light. A fireball streaked from his palm, destined for the now shocked metal mask, and the Summoner was only saved by throwing himself desperately to the floor. He covered his head as the ball exploded against the wall behind, showering him in cinders.

Mortis was staring at his hands, breathing heavy and disbelieving of the feat he'd just achieved. The Summoner looked up, an unsure expression on his mask, and for one brief moment they forgot their fight and shared something wholly unique.

"You haven't done that in years," the Summoner whispered.

"I know," Mortis whispered in reply.

Then the battle resumed. The Summoner was up, the mask grinning triumphantly once more.

"Impressive display, but I know tricks of my own."

With a gesture very similar to Mortis', he unleashed a ball of ice that flew so fast the demon was unable to move from its path. It struck him at the knees, freezing his legs to the floor. Mortis howled in protest and began to smash the ice apart with his fists. The Summoner merely continued to grin his horrible metallic grin, and slowly began to stride towards the portal.

"Don't you flee!" Mortis bellowed; "Don't you run from me! Our fight isn't finished; I will make you _pay!_"

The Summoner just continued to walk casually away, while Mortis managed to free one leg from the icy chunk. He'd almost freed the other, when the man reached the portal, and stopped inches from stepping through. The mask that turned to face the struggling demon was no longer mocking, only a resigned listlessness one might see on a city busker.

"Yes. I will pay. And I'm willing to bet ten fold. But not today, and hopefully not for a long time to come. This is the beginning of the end for me, the Sanctuary beyond is about to become my eternal home and prison. Farewell, Dune Hunter," the listless mask changed back to that happy, hollow smile, "I enjoyed our time together."

With that, the Summoner stepped into the portal. The rage, pain and hurt at seeing his manipulator getting way sent strength surging through Mortis's body, and he shattered out of the ice with one mighty heave.

"You _BASTARD_", he screamed, lunging towards the portal. His outstretched claws reached, slashed, mere centimetres from the man's flowing robe. Then the portal closed with a clap of lightning, and Mortis was left in darkness. Some fine blue fibres clinging to his nails were the only evidence of how close he had come.

He howled. He cried. He punched at the strange stone arch where the portal had been till his knuckles were raw and cracked. Nothing worked. Only some final, far away words drifted to him, like whispers on the breeze.

"_It's no use doing that; it will not open for you. Humans only, I'm afraid. Perhaps, one day, a would-be hero will come through to entertain me; one pure of heart and honourable of intention may have what it takes to activate the portal. But, sadly for you, there aren't many people like that left in the world today…"_

The voice faded away. Mortis's enemy had, well and truly, slipped from his grasp.

* * *

Mortis knelt underneath the portal arch for a long time, his mind blank and eyes the same. The room beneath the palace felt cold and empty now, despite the heated battle that had just taken place. He felt he could just sit there for eternity, test the 'body to stone' theory, but suddenly the concept of time seemed very important.

Time. It was well past dawn. And it suddenly hit him that the ship, Braca and his next assignment may also be slipping away.

Mortis dragged himself reluctantly to his feet and made his way slowly to the door. He hated being defeated, and even though the Summoners only real action was to flee, it felt like a defeat none the less. Unresolved matters, a fight for another day, and one he definitely intended to come back too.

His pace quickened as he worked his way back up through the dusty, spider webbed basement, and by the time he reached the harem he was at a full run. The idea of being left behind in this city, where he had inadvertently caused so much pain, was too much to handle. He was not going to miss that boat.

Mortis rounded the last corner and collided with something so hard, he was knocked backwards onto the marble floor. He was up in a second, thinking perhaps it was a guard, but the young man cowering below him was anything but. The man's turban had been knocked askew, and his eyes were wide with terror. He looked about to faint.

"D-d-demon!" he managed to stutter, "Stay back! Stay _back!_" He pushed and slipped backwards, moccasined feet squeaking on the polished floor. Mortis spoke fast, his palms raised high.

"Prince Jerhyn!" he said, "I mean you know harm."

Jerhyn only stared back at him for a long moment, eyeing the gleaming claws on the hands that were displayed. Eyeing the great wings, the blue skin and almost inhuman face. Mortis knelt so he was at the prince's level.

"Please, I haven't much time. I understand meeting a demon in the hallways of your home is an unexpected event, but you must listen."

Jerhyn's features began to soften, he blinked, and sudden recognition hit.

"You're… you're the Dune Hunter! I remember the descriptions of you from the stories my carers told me. I heard you were back… I always wanted to meet you, you know, but my father refused…"

Mortis could see the lad was still suffering from mild shock. He gripped Jerhyn's shoulders and shook him, gently, but firm.

"Be alert, and be quick! Aren't you aware of what's happening in your city? This is _urgent."_

Jerhyn blinked again, then a flush of colour filled his cheeks.

"I… I've been asleep. I just woke up and everyone was gone. The guards, the servants… even father."

Mortis rolled his eyes. Far off in the distance, on the fringes of his consciousness, he heard a mocking laugh.

"…_there's a big difference between one's desires to help, and one's abilities to do so…"_ it echoed.

"No," Mortis said aloud to himself, "I won't let that happen."

Jerhyn looked confusedly up at him.

"Are you talking to me…?"

Mortis ignored him and pulled the young man to his feet.

"Listen, while you've been off in your palace of dreams, two great evils have invaded your city. One is an Undead mage, risen to take vengeance on the living and feed on their flesh. He's taken residence in the sewers, and that is where the guards have gone." He paused to take a breath. Jerhyn listened wide eyed.

"The second," Mortis continued, "was your father's Vizier. He –"

He paused again. Something was wrong.

"He –"

Nothing. He couldn't speak. The words were there, but they were lodged in his throat. Absorbed by his tongue. Mortis snarled in frustration.

"_Damn you, Summoner!" _he screamed in his mind,_ "What have you done? What spell have you placed over my tormented mind?"_

There was no answer, but there didn't really need to be. Mortis would never speak of the Summoner's plans, no matter how hard he tried. Some enchantments were just too hard to break via will alone, and Mortis didn't have the time to try another way.

Jerhyn, meanwhile, was staring at the demon's alarmingly vicious face.

"…The Vizier? What about him?"

Mortis snorted and shook his head.

"Never mind. I'm afraid you'll find out in due time. Just heed my word: seek out your trainers and learn the ways of war. Earn the respect of the guards – the ones that remain – and talk long and hard with Greiz. It is imperative you gain the knowledge of battle, and gain it soon."

The young man, naïve as Summoner had predicted, only shook his head.

"I can't do that! My father forbids it! He will deal with whatever evil comes this way; he is the Sultan, after all."

Mortis smacked his forehead in frustration. He could feel the pain welling inside, it screwed up his face. It was as he feared. The Sultan's power over his son was to strong, and the boy would not defy him while he thought his father alive. Therefore, there was only one way to make Jerhyn step up to assume his duty. It was what Mortis had dreaded the second they'd collided, and now it had to be done.

Slowly, Mortis reached into the pocket of his shorts. He withdrew a clenched fist, held it in front of the Prince, and left it there. A brief struggle ensued within him; Mortis's hands shaking, his breathing heavy. The consequences of what was about to occur was going to tear him even further apart and he knew it. But finally, the fist opened.

Jerhyn's eyes widened as he gazed on the emblem, once stuck in his father's turban. Mortis didn't know fully what to expect. Would the man snap? Scream? Lash out? Simply stare in shock? Instead, the young Sultan simply nodded.

"So he is dead then," Jerhyn said sadly, "I knew the day was close."

"Oh yes?" Mortis queried, unable to hide his surprise at the prince's mild reaction.

"Yes. I've seen and heard of how the people in our city felt towards him. I thought they'd plot something… though I admit, hiring the Dune Hunter wasn't a path I thought they'd consider."

Mortis gazed down for a second, studying the emblem himself.

"I was hired by people – ones even I know nothing of - to do the deed, but what you say is true. I doubt your father will be greatly missed. You, however, will be welcomed to the throne. If," he took the princes gaze and held it, "If you abandon certain Hassani exploits."

This time, Jerhyn was the one to look down.

"You're speaking of the Human Zoo. I'm guessing that was the reason you were hired, and it was probably where you slew him last night, correct?"

Mortis nodded.

"I see."

He went silent, and Mortis saw the change almost immediately. It was what he had hoped. With his father gone, Jerhyn now fully accepted the role that had been thrust upon him. He was ready.

"I am the Sultan of Lut Gholein," the young man said, "and as of this moment I will sever all ties with abominable organisations such as the Human Zoo's. In fact, all slaves of the palace will be freed. They do not belong here, but in their homes."

He stopped, then smiled. The ability to make such decisions, freely and without the watchful gaze of his father, was obviously something he'd been waiting a long, long time to do. It pleased him greatly.

Mortis smiled too.

"I think you'll be alright," he said, giving Jerhyn a good natured slap on the shoulder, "Just don't go digging around in any maggot holes."

The new Sultan smirked curiously.

"Errr… sure… why?"

"Nevermind. Now I must leave. I have… many things to think about. Grief to flush from my heart, and doubt from my mind. Good luck… Sultan Jerhyn."

Jerhyn bowed, and as Mortis made to pass him, he gripped the demon's arm tightly.

"I will tell the people he was slain by the Human Zoo. Things will be ok."

The sudden image of a child's leg, the tiny sandal still on its foot, flashed in Mortis's mind and made him squint.

"No," he said softly, "I don't think things will be. This will be the last time I ever visit your desert city. I'm glad we met before the end."

Jerhyn let go of the demons arm, and Mortis strode towards the stairs.

* * *

The new Sultan stood on the steps of his palace, watching the figure of the Dune Hunter fly out to sea, chasing the speck of a ship far out on the horizon. He sighed.

His palace. His city. His people. In the hot morning sun, he could see completely the carnage caused by the beast the Dune Hunter had mentioned. The sounds of despair still hung in the air, the streets still awash with blood. Jerhyn grimaced.

Something dark and sinister was coming to his land, and if it wasn't here yet, it would be very soon. For a new ruler, there would be no better tests of skill. He gazed west, to the deserts horizon, where a storm that lived only in his heart seemed to be brewing.

And hoped he was prepared for the trials ahead.


	11. The Palavers Part 1

Pre-Contract 4 – Palaver

The gentle rocking motion of the ship did nothing to ease Mortis's mood. Demons do not, after all, have mothers to cradle them throughout the night, and therefore they can not associate rocking with comfort. He lay on his undersized crib, hands under his head, staring at the wood ceiling.

The sailors had almost jumped over board when he dropped from the sky and landed heavily on the deck. Only the Captain's cries of 'hold' stopped them from doing so. Obviously Braca had had words to him, and the gruff old man was able to calm his crew quickly and quietly with a few barked orders.

"Thought ya'd been kilt," the Captain said through a mouth full of pipe. "Git yaself below deck now, ya spookin' me men enough."

On any other day, Mortis would have grabbed the man by his poorly groomed beard and tossed him into the crows nest. But not today. He was tired, furious, and grief stricken all at once. He wasn't in the mood for anything but sleep.

Following the Captains directions, he swiftly found his cabin, bolted the door, and there he'd stayed for the past two days.

He rolled onto his side now, peering into the dark corners of his room. The shadows spoke to him, danced figures in front of his eyes. He wished for sleep, but feared it as well. Perhaps some of the Dust of Radament hadn't been completely washed away, for when he did sleep the dreams were vivid and real. And not his own.

A hundred times now he had seen that swinging tavern sign, heard the screams and saw faces of people he knew, just seconds before they died. A hundred brief dozes, where he'd thought it safe to close his eyes for just a minute, and his mind had slipped from this world into unreality. But it _was_ real, the things he saw, and he knew it.

The grief had passed, or so it felt. Now he was just numb. The haunting images always made him wake with a start, but he no longer felt the urge to do that strange body function humans called 'cry'. Now he was just numb. Just numb.

* * *

He awoke on the third day after the longest sleep he'd managed since leaving Lut Gholein. There had been dreams, but not like before. Perhaps his body had finally purged itself of Radament's influence, for these ones had been of jungle. Of great green trees and marshy swamps. It had all been familiar, and he knew why. It was Kurast. The place on Sanctuary he'd first arrived upon leaving Hell.

"Mortis, Mortis, Mortis," the voice of Braca came out of the darkness like a shadowy wraith. The demon started, almost leaping right from his crib, then settled back with a groan.

"Damn you, Braca, that's the second time you've done that."

"Yes, but this time I made sure I was well out of head butt range."

Braca sat on a small stool in the far corner of the room. He looked as neat and preened as ever, his strange black suit creaseless to the elbows. The nervous tick in the corner of his mouth was as subtle as ever, but still in easy sight.

"Mortis, Mortis" the man repeated, "You really got yourself into a mess this time didn't you?"

Mortis sat up, his head resting on the palm of one hand, eyes facing the floor.

"Yes. I believe I did."

"It's an evil world out there, my friend. Full of evil men who long for power. And I think you've seen now the extent in which these men will go to get it."

"I _know_ evil. I am from Hell. And I've been on Sanctuary long enough to know the capabilities of men." He took his hand from his head and brought his fingers together in a peek. "But you know, I'm beginning to wonder which is the better evil."

Braca raised an eyebrow in the dark.

"Oh?"

Mortis sighed.

"Demons – Hell Lords aside – aren't usually intelligent creatures. When we are bound to the Lords eternal wills, we are mindless killing machines. We don't know the difference between good and evil, we are just evil. Full evil, and we have no qualms about it. It is our way of life."

Braca nodded understandingly. Mortis thought it odd that the man would agree that easily, but dismissed it as he continued.

"Man, or men, on the other hand, _does_ know right from wrong. It may depend on their upbringing, but generally every human being I've had palaver with has an understanding of good and evil. Therefore, when they do evil acts – such as condemn a fellow man to his death – they do so with full knowledge of what they are doing."

Mortis looked up and locked eyes with the strange man who had employed him.

"So which do you think is better? An evil act done in ignorance? Or one done with knowing purpose? In cold blood?"

"I don't know. What do you consider your acts to be?"

Mortis stiffened. It wasn't a question he was prepared for.

"That's different. I destroy evil now. I'm hired to remove evil men from this world."

"And what if the people who hire you are the evil ones? The ones you kill, innocent? What then?"

"I… I can usually tell. I can… sense it."

"Can you be sure? Did you not believe Brent to be innocent at first? Yet you still killed him."

"I… you… explained. He was going to _become_ evil, against his will. It was in the best interests of everyone, including himself, that he be… released from his fate."

Braca smiled, what light that did shine through the rooms porthole illuminating his teeth eerily.

"My point is Mortis; no one can ever be one hundred percent sure that what they are doing is right. I _know _the acts you have committed. You've let your rage get the better of you before; you've killed knowingly and in cold blood. Why, you even threatened _me_ when I first proposed employment. Remember?"

A whisper from the past drifted into Mortis's mind.

"_What's there to stop me from simply taking the gold and your life right now?"_ he had said. It felt so long ago, yet it may have been no more then a week.

"Yes," he admitted at last, "I do my fair share of cold blooded killing. I am demon. I am assassin. And I am hired by man. It is inevitable."

"Then who are you to judge?" Braca smirked, "Think also that it is possible to commit evil by mistake. Or perhaps, because one is forced."

Mortis looked up sharply. Did Braca know _every_thing about the Summoner's manipulation? If so, how? He found himself wondering how far the sight of these mystery employees stretched.

Braca seemed to read the thoughts on Mortis's face, and nodded in reply.

"Yes, I know all of it. This 'Summoner', as you called him, has been a wanted individual by my employers since he first began to dabble in the art. Unfortunately, he was unbelievably crafty, and he disappeared from our view quite some time ago. Till now, of course. We had no way of knowing he was going to interfere."

Whether Braca realised it or not, he had just answered one of the questions Mortis had pondered the most. He studied his employers face, looking for any signs of untruth. There was none. Not even the mouth tick.

"So you really had no idea of this Summoner or his plans? Did you know of Radament?"

"We don't tend to consider people that have already perished. Radament paid for his sins long ago. He was a non-factor in our plans."

Braca suddenly started, as if he'd said something by mistake. Mortis didn't react. The man continued.

"So no, we didn't predict those two or the havoc they could reap. We did, however, know that the possibility of interference was there. The Sultan was a hated man, after all. And if you'd read your contract thoroughly, you would have seen our warning."

Mortis raised an eyebrow, and Braca nodded. Closing his eyes, the demon concentrated and called in the piece of parchment on which his assignment had been written. He opened his eyes, and began to read over thoroughly while Braca waited patiently in the corner. One leg crossed over the other and bouncing nonchalantly, his hands folded neatly in his lap, Braca seemed the picture of calm.

Mortis read the words slowly, even mouthing them as he did, and groaned as he reached the final lines. The last line; Atma had disturbed him and he'd vanished it before he could finish reading. Now the words were there in plain view, and Braca could not be denied.

"…_People who have such little respect for their fellow man have no place in this world. _

Braca

P.S. You are not the only one who wants the Sultan dead. Keep your eyes open, and Don't. Trust. Anyone."

Don't trust anyone. Three simple words. Yet how useful they could have been. What had the Summoner threatened him with after all? Rumours? Rumour's lives are short; they die far faster then fact. No matter how the Sultan's murder had been worded, people would have come to forget, perhaps even welcome the ideas. The task had just seemed so simple.

Invade a tomb. Read a scroll. That simple.

"How was I to know?" Mortis mumbled.

"How indeed," Braca replied.

The neat little man smacked his hands on his knees and gave a sigh.

"Well, I've enjoyed our chat. I'll let you sort out your thoughts and rest. I'll be back to discuss you final contract later." He stood, nodded a goodbye, and left as silently as he'd arrived.

Mortis lay on his crib, his mind swirling. Good and evil, man and demon. Was there really any true defining characteristics? His experiences had been vast, yet it was not a question he could answer without doubt.

The capabilities of man, now that he knew. All too well.


	12. The Palavers Part 2

Rain poured down in torrents, rendering the ground below a mucky cocktail of dust and clay. Mortis, perched among the branches of a tall, leafy tree, had little concern for this. The grumbles of the thieves hiding around him, however, could be heard quite clearly.

The caravan was late. The afternoon raid had now become a night one, and although this would make the thieving easier, it meant the party had been out in the storm for more hours then they cared for. Mortis sat on his branch, eyes fixed keenly on the path through the mountains. The trees were quite thick here, making visibility even worse through the rain. A thief yawning behind his bush below made the demon glance down.

"Bloooddyy hell," the disgruntled man drawled. He was wearing a wide brimmed hat that had collected a miniature bird bath's worth of water. Large droplets splashed out every time he moved his head. Mortis continued to watch as the thief pulled a small knife from his pocket and began to clean his fingernails casually. Then he let off a fart then could have killed a quill rat.

"I'm still up here, you know, Teddery," Mortis snorted. The man started, almost jabbing the knife through his finger, and looked up fast. A large portion of the bird-bath water sloshed from his hat and succeeded in completely drenching his back.

"Dammit, I did f'get," Teddery grinned, squinting up in the darkness at the winged form above him. "Nearly shat meself."

Mortis grinned.

"From me startling you or from that gas explosion you just unleashed upon this world?"

Teddery grinned back.

"I'll go with both."

They chuckled quietly for a bit, and then Mortis allowed his gaze to wander to his surroundings. Two more thieves lurked in a ditch closer to the road. They had a makeshift tent made of animal skin, which allowed them better cover. Wouldn't be long before the ditch would start to fill though, he knew.

Across the road; three thieves hid somewhere beyond Mortis's vision. One was the young man that had invited him. Another was Dreg, the thief who'd given Zac the 'friendly' pat on the back. And finally, there was Jake. Despite being strung upside down last night for his comment about 'juicy daughters' – which led Zac on his usual "Rules of Thievery" lecture – the guild had allowed Jake to take part in the raid anyway.

Mortis's mouth drew into a thin line when he finally spotted the bulging stomach of the loud mouthed man extending from behind a tree. Of all the thieves, Jake was the one he felt least comfortable with. The man wasn't right. Not truly evil; Mortis could sense that like a dead mouse in a bread bin. It was something else, something… subtle. 

He shifted his eyes back to the road. Lightning flashed fiercely, illuminating the whole pass for a fraction of a second, and then left the members of the thieves' guild staring blankly into darkness with white spots dancing under their eye lids. Mortis sighed and shifted his sitting position. He wished he had room to straighten his back and wings, but the tree was to thickly foliaged for either motions.

A distant sound, carried by the wind, suddenly made Mortis sit upright. Horses hooves? Perhaps the cracking of fallen twigs under the wheels of a coach? Teddery, below, sensed the demon's shift in attention, and stood up himself.

"Ay? Ya spotted somethin', Mort?" He was alert and staring down the road intensely. Mortis merely nodded, an action the thief could barely pick up in the gloom.

Teddery put his fingers to his mouth and made a series of small, hoot like noises. Though Mortis had only been with the guild for a total of one day, he knew the call would have been different if it was still afternoon. After all, it'd be strange to hear a day-bird calling at night, and an owl calling visa versa.

The thieves responded accordingly. Mortis saw every face appear to stare at the source of the hoots, and just as quickly disappear again. The ambush was on now; operation "Steal from the Rich to Satisfy Our Own Lust for Challenges" was in full swing.

He could definitely hear hoof falls now. They had been dulled by the mud and water, but every now and then they'd find a rocky part of the road and the steps would come loud and clear. Mortis crouched, every muscle tense, the anticipation he had grown to love when out hunting alone, building in his mind. Below, Teddery could see golden eyes, glowing brightly in the dark.

"Ya know yer game," the man whispered upwards. "Jump when _yar_ think the time's right, and we'll jus' follow procedure from there."

Mortis didn't respond, completely focused on the task at hand. Much like a hawk develops tunnel vision when it spots a prey, so was the demon beginning to zone out all other elements. Rain? A reason to briefly blink your eyes. Wind? A screen to interfere with the senses, but like any screen, one that can be seen through if you concentrate hard enough. And darkness… well, no one could relate to the phrase "darkness be my friend" more then a demon from Hell. He was aware of nothing but the rickety silhouette now lumbering its way up the path below him.

His part in the plan was simple. Jump in front of the carriage, disturb the horses, and block them from bolting past him. He crept out as far as he thought the branch would allow, and poised, ready.

The carriage came into view, now no more then sixty feet away. Though it belonged to a rich family, it was easy to see their journey had been rough. One wheel wobbled awkwardly on its axle, and the fine paint had been stripped by winds relentless flurry. The horses snorted misty breaths and kept their faces sorrowfully bent towards the path. It would be an easy raid.

As the two horses drew underneath him, Mortis spread his great wings and leapt from the branch. He landed with a squelching thud on the road, sending mud spraying all directions. The horses smelled him before they saw his form through their matted fringes, and immediately whinnied with fear. One tried to back away, and reared when the carriage wheel caught a rock and refused to move.

Mortis moved in quick, grabbing the reins and holding them firmly. The horses stared wide eyed with their nostrils flaring, all the time champing desperately at their bits.

"Move in, boys!" a gruff voice yelled, and within seconds the rest of the thieves had jumped clear of their hiding places and were running to the carriage. Teddery joined Mortis, holding the other horse. The two ditch-hiders jumped up onto the right side of the carriage, effectively blocking escape from that side. Dreg circled around the back to start dealing with the boxes tied firmly there, which left only Jake and the young thief.

Mortis watched the fat man stride slowly up to the door of the carriage, a wide grin on his weather worn face. The young thief followed a few steps behind, a small knife flicking from hand to hand. It seemed the entire guild came equipped with these trusty pocket tools.

"Well, well," Jake said loudly over the sound of the rain, "What do we got here? Pretty coaches like this should know better'n to come through a mountain pass unescorted."

The storm continued to howl its opinion, but no answer came from within the carriage. The curtains in the windows remained drawn. Jake frowned, his brow furrowing disapprovingly.

"Oi!" he bellowed. "You in there. Come out and bring us your shiny trinkets. We won't hurt ya."

Though this is what Mortis expected when it came to the actual robbing, something in Jake's voice sounded far from sincere. Regardless, the curtain was finally drawn back slightly, and a pale face peeked nervously out.

("D-don't hurt us,") the man spoke, muffled from within the carriage. ("Please!")

"We won't hafta if you bring us yer treasures willingly," came the reply.

The face disappeared for a second, then returned.

("We… we don't have anything. We're just passing through, I swear.") 

Mortis heard the young thief snicker softly. Jake was still frowning, but now it looked as if he was almost pleased about the way events were going. There was an odd twinkle in his eye.

"Last chance," he yelled.

No reply came from within. After a full minute had passed, Jake's frown broke into a smirk, and he turned to face the young thief. 

"Lemi… get the door," he said calmly. The young thief seemed all too happy to oblige. Leaping past the bigger man, he grabbed a hold of the handle and swung it open fiercely. A shocked gasp came from within, followed by what sounded like a child crying 'dad!'

Lemi didn't enter, however, but seemed content to just hold the door as Jake turned around again, heaved himself up the carriages step and went through the opening. The young thief quickly swung the door closed and leaned against it firmly.

("Right,") Jakes voice, now muffled, came from inside. ("Where's ya goods then?")

There was the sound of something smashing and movement, then the voice of the face in the window spoke up.

("Stop it! Get out! Leave them alone.")

("Oh ho! What have we here?)

More tussling from within, and suddenly Jake gave an almighty yell. The nobleman's voice rang out again.

("Get away from her, you _bastard_!)

("Oh you be bloody payin' for that!")

This time there was no wrestling, just one short, sharp scream from the nobleman and then Lemi was smoothly opening the door. Two seconds later, a body came flying out of the carriage and landed with a squelch in the mud. Mortis stared at the pale face of the man at the window, lying with his eyes open and mouth agape. The trademark small thief's blade had been lodged firmly in his neck, effectively cutting through the wind pipe and the spine on the other side.

Lemi closed the door again and continued to lean against it. He too was looking at the body, but the look on his face was smug, almost as if it had all been planned. The heavy pounding of someone hitting the door with the palm of their hand made his eyes widen in surprise. 

("Open up, we got another.")

Lemi did so, and a small boy came hurtling out. He landed on his rear on the road next to his father, blinking as the wind assaulted his eyes. He was staring at the body with a mixture of disbelief and plain shock.

Jake's ugly face leaned out of the doorway, a sneer on his lips. There was a long slash down his left check where the nobleman had attacked him, and the smeared blood was beginning to flow again in the rain. 

"Better start runnin', boy. Else ya end up like daddy there."

The child looked from his father to his assailant, the tears streaming down his face lost among those of the storm. He started to crawl backwards, before getting to his feet and half running, half slipping his way into the woods around.

Lemi and the other thieves on the carriage chuckled with laughter, and then Jake disappeared back inside. Once more the young thief closed the door and stood smugly on guard.

("Right then girlie, where was we?")

Mortis was gripping the reins tightly, still staring at the body on the road. This wasn't in the raid outline Teddery had told him while they sat and waited for the carriage earlier that afternoon. No one was supposed to get hurt. And hadn't Zac stressed that very thoroughly? Something was amiss.

The dead man's eyes stared blankly into the darkness. It was the first time Mortis he'd seen a man kill his fellow man, and at this point in time, he had no idea how to feel about it.

A strong arm gripped his shoulder.

"Sh!t" Teddery said in a hoarse whisper, "What the _hell_ is going on 'ere? Jake's gone _rogue_?"

Mortis glanced at him and saw the thief looked both angry and frightened at the same time. He'd lost his hat at some point, and he looked a lot older then he had a few minutes ago.

"Yes… but the man attacked him," Mortis said slowly. "Jake was… right? To fight back?"

Teddery shook his head and looked ready to belt him. Beat that confused look right off the demon's face.

"C'mon you saw that slash on 'is cheek. Barely flesh deep! Jake wanted to kill 'im, he was just lookin' for an excuse."

When Mortis didn't respond, the thief took a breath and began to speak slower.

"The nobleman was defendin' his family. Ya know what that is, right? Family? No I guess not, you're from Hell. No parents there, I'm betting. What do ya just all spawn from the same pool or somethin'?" 

Mortis visibly bristled, so Teddery continued.

"He was protectin' that boy we saw go a runnin', and probably that girlie girl Jakes harassin' this minute. _He_ was the one in the right. Look, it's 'ard to explain, but there are right and wrong times for killin'. You just got to look 'ere, and you'll know."

Teddery thumped Mortis on the chest, above his breast bone. The demon looked at the fist resting over his sternum for a few seconds, then back at the face of the thief.

"In my heart?" He squinted, trying to think. "Yes, Zac has mentioned that. I don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling though…" 

"If there's any good in ya – and I'm almost certain there is – ya'll understand soon enough. Now listen;"

He pulled Mortis down to his level and glanced warily around at the other thieves. The two ditch-hiders had their ears pressed firmly against the windows, grinning widely and giving each other half hearted shoves. Dreg, around the back, was out of sight. Only Lemi seemed to remember they were there, and his questioning glance towards them lasted only a few seconds before he returned to his game of "Spit on the Dead Man's Head". Teddery brought his mouth back close to the demon's ear.

"Listen, I'm gonna go find the boy. There're all manner of beasties in these woods, and the lad won't last the night. When I come back…" he paused, considering what he was about to say. "When I come back… have the carriage ready to travel."

That was all he said. He gave Mortis a slap on the shoulder and hurried off into the storm, following the path of the young boy. Lemi watched him go and called out.

"Oi, Teddery. Where you going? Gone to have a bit of fun with the boy yourself, ay? Always knew you were like that, you dirty old man." He hawked a deep loogie and shot it successfully into the nobleman's hair. "Score!" he cried cheerfully.

Mortis held the reins of the horses for what felt like a long time, running through all the things in his mind. As a demon in a strange world, he never was much of a fast thinker. He wondered if it would get any better in the future. For the moment, however, he could here muffled shouts from within the carriage, and the reek of evil doing was foul in the air.

Catching each horse's eye in a steely glance, he gripped their muzzles and spoke two words in a special way Zac had taught him.

"Don't. Move."

The horse's eyes followed him, but they sensed the tone and power in his voice and remained steady on their feet. Satisfied, Mortis dropped the reins and headed towards the carriage door.

Lemi was playing some sort of trick with his knife now, twirling the hilt of it expertly on one finger, then leap frogging it to another. He almost flinched when he saw Mortis before him, but not quite.

"Ay? What are _you_ doing around here? Who's holding the –" 

"Get out of the way," Mortis interrupted. Lemi paused with his mouth open, mid sentence, then closed it, his eyes squinted suspiciously. 

"What?" 

"Get away from the door, or I'll force you too."

Lemi saw the demon was serious, and snatched the twirling knife from his finger. He seemed somewhere between putting the blade back in his pocket and thrusting it in Mortis's face. Mortis could see him weighing up his options.

On the other side of the carriage, the two ditch-hiders chuckled with laughter.

"Ha, you go, Jake!" one shouted, "Give it too her good!"

Lemi, reminded suddenly that there were four of him and only one of Mortis, returned to the same smug smile as he'd had the past few minutes while spitting on the dead man from afar.

"Not likely, Hell boy," he smirked, "Just let Jake have his way, and we can all go on living happily ever-"

The palm of Mortis's hand fit quite well around the side of the young thief's head, and neither Dreg, Jake nor the ditch-hiders heard the single choked cry as the big demon picked Lemi up and deftly tossed him away from the door.

Lemi flew high and landed close by the nobleman, and Mortis heard the tell-tale 'crack' of spine as the thief hit the ground. The demon took a few steps towards him and leant down close to the fallen man's ear. Lemi's eyes were rolling wildly, hands twitching, and though he was still alive he seemed unable to move from the waist down. His ability to speak had also left him for the time being.

"Maybe tomorrow, someone will stop to help," Mortis whispered. "But if anything Zac told me is true, they'll be more apt to spit on you when they see that poor man lying beside you."

So began a habit that would make Mortis the most feared assassin in all of Sanctuary. Evil men and drunken wanderers would talk far into the night about the hired demon that could attack from above and hide seamlessly in the shadows. What truths would he whisper in your ear, as you lay dying from the claws marks on your throat? What final words would he leave rattling in your mind as he sent you off to a place he had left, not so long ago?

Lemi, the first human to fall victim to the demon's wrath, just stared wide eyed and fearful up at the winged beast above him, mouth opening and closing in a desperate effort to make words. Mortis ignored him and went back to the carriage door.

Though Jake had been in there some time, he was still far from achieving the foul act he was trying to force the girl into, and when Mortis ripped the door open, he could see she'd put up a hell of a fight. Jake's face was covered in scratches, and the knife slash on his cheek had been torn a little deeper. The girl herself had also been beaten, one eye swelling already from a heavy blow, and visible red marks circled her throat. Her dress had been hitched up to her thighs

The fat thief had her pinned to one of the two seats in the carriage, his pants around his ankles. He looked up as the door opened and squinted.

"Lemi, that you…?" He paused when he saw that the silhouette was far too big to be his door guarding comrade, and the golden eyes glowering in the dark.

"You? What're you doing in 'ere?"

"Jake, let the girl go," Mortis said in a voice so cold it could turn the rain to hail. Jake sneered in reply and grabbed a handful of the girl's breast defiantly.

"What, ya want 'er for yerself? Piss off and wait yer turn."

But Mortis's attention had left the thief now. Now he was looking at the girl. She lay under the weight of Jake's hefty gut, gasping from her battle exertions. She looked no older then seventeen.


	13. The Palavers Part 3

Long, golden hair. The pale skin of someone that spent more time indoors then out exploring the countryside. Her face, under the bruises, was young and innocent, and the kind of pleasant pretty some boys found both charming and attractive.

Thinking back on it now, Mortis could only compare the change that occurred in him to the one other fateful moment in his life; the one that flung him into this new world and everything that dwelled within. In fact, Izual severing his mind from the Hell Lords, and thus freeing his will, was not all that different to the realization that dawned the moment he saw the girl at all.

She stared at him, terrified at the sight of his demonic form, yet pleading desperately with her eyes. Her lips quivered with fear and exhaustion, and her beautiful, frail body was the jolt Mortis's heart needed to feel.

He finally understood Zac's insistence in the protection of women and children. He understood what it meant to care for something or someone, even if they were a stranger to his eyes. And he understood that vile acts like the one Jake was trying to commit were among the worst possible crimes a man could commit.

Of course, Mortis wouldn't realize until later what a profound effect these new feelings would have on him. How they would develop into morals, how from there he would make human friends, and, eventually, suffer the pain and confusion of the emotions that came packaged with them. That was all in the future. For now, the clear understanding of what was right and wrong in this man-ruled world was enough to get the ball rolling, and Jake of the Thieves Guild was the first in its path.

"Oi, ya listening, ya great blue git?" Jake growled when Mortis continued to look at the girl and not him. "I said wait ya turn."

The girl managed to free an arm from the fat thief's gripping fist, and let her palm fall loosely in Mortis's direction.

"Help… please?" she gasped. Her fingers had been crushed during her resistance, and Mortis was sure at least two were broken. Jake scowled and raised his fist again, ready to back hand her.

"Shuddup, b!tch, I ain't talkin' to –"

The two thieves outside may have been listening intently to the new developments in the carriage, but they certainly weren't prepared for what happened next. The bulging body of Jake came hurtling through the wall they leant against with pressed ears, scattering splinters of wood and both men in all directions. They fell back into their ditch, which had now filled almost entirely with water, and sank with a splash almost up to their necks. Spluttering and clearing mud from their eyes, they stared in horror as Jake, the entire left side of his faced caved in from the chin to his scalp, floated past them and began to head downstream.

"Oh my Lords in Heaven," one thief gasped. They looked to the carriage and saw Mortis leaning out towards them, his eyes blazing and wings moving erratically. His nails were digging deep into the side of the splintery hole, and he looked ready to pounce.

"No, not Heaven, friend," the other thief choked. "That is the wrath of Hell descended upon poor Jake there. Run now, before we experience it ourselves, I reckon."

His partner needed no further convincing. Both thieves crawled from their ditch and fled fearfully into the night. Mortis watched them go, the adrenaline within him eager for the hunt, but his concern for the girl greater.

When he was sure they were well away, Mortis turned and knelt beside the beaten, terrified girl.

"You should be ok. I'm sorry about your father, but my friend is out looking for your brother now. He'll –"

Pain pierced his side like liquid lead, and he let out a cry even Teddery heard as he roamed and called for a lost boy. A strong arm wrapped itself around Mortis's neck, and he felt the pain grow sharper as more pressure was applied.

"Ya dirty demon. Shoulda known better'n to bring a blood drinker like you along."

Dreg had slipped through the gaping hole in the carriage behind them, and thrust that small guild knife deep into Mortis's lower back. He slowly choked Mortis to his knees, and gave the knife a hard twist when the demon raised his claws to slash.

"Ah, none o' that then. Any sudden movements and I'll rip this blade out through ya side and spill ya guts faster'n you killed old Jake there."

Mortis lowered his hands and concentrated on trying to breath under the thief's heavy arm. His wings were getting in the way of Dreg's grip, allowing him some room to gasp, but not much.

"Dreg… you can't hold me all night," he choked. "You're going to slip up… and when you do –"

"I said _shut up_," Dreg bellowed, giving the knife another twist. "I don't need'ta hold you all night, just till ya pass out from loss of blood. Then I can cut ya up at me leisure."

The gruff thief was so absorbed in his prey that the prospect of the girl jumping in never even crossed his mind. Only when her fingers curled around his head and gouged deeply into his eyes did he realise his mistake.

"Let him go, you _bastard_," she screamed, digging her fingers in deeper and ignoring the loud 'pop' as one eyeball burst like an over-ripe tomato. Dreg fell backwards screaming, pulling the knife from Mortis's side and stabbing it blinding over his head towards his assailant. The girl dodged the slashes easily, but was forced to let go when he finally nicked her arm.

By this time, however, Mortis had regained his breath and had Dreg firmly in his grip. With one quick motion, he gave the man's head a twist and his movements were instantly quelled. Mortis released him and let the body tumble out of the hole in the carriage, back out onto the road.

Both he and the girl sat silently for a few minutes; he wincing with pain from the wound in his back, she looking in horror at the pieces of jelly and gore still stuck to her fingernails.

"I… I… I…" was all she managed to stammer. She looked up at Mortis her hands still clawed in front of her. He managed a smile and took one of them in his own hand.

"You did well," was all he said.

* * *

When Teddery returned not long after, he could only gape at the havoc that had been wrought since his departure into the woods. Lemi had finally found his voice, and was screaming in agony from his place on the road.

From this side, the carriage looked fine to Teddery, but as he entered through the door and peered in, he saw that half the opposing wall had been completely smashed out. One booted foot rested at the base of the hole, and he guessed the rest of Dreg lay just outside on the road

"Bllooooodyyy _hell_!" Teddery cried , "I said 'ave the carriage ready to travel', not 'blow the freakin' wall out of it'."

Mortis was sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the cushioned chairs. The girl was leaning against the other. Both looked exhausted, but relieved. Apparently they'd been talking.

"Sorry," Mortis said, "Blame Jake if you want. If he wasn't so fat, the hole would've been smaller."

Teddery allowed himself a smirk.

"I bet. Where is our friend Jake, anyway?"

Mortis raised one tired hand and pointed outside, where the ditch that had previously been decent thief cover was now a mini raging river.

"All bad things head down stream," Mortis sighed, "like water under the bridge."

Teddery nodded, not bothering to ask what the demon might mean by that. Now the girl had his attention.

"Ya alright?" he asked sincerely. She nodded, then looked behind him to the door.

"Did you... did you find my brother?"

The thief nodded, and leaned out through the doorway.

"Is all right, kiddo. You can come out now."

A small, frightened face appeared from behind a tree not far off, and the boy emerged. He walked slowly past the screaming Lemi, only giving his dead father a swift and pained glance, before running to the carriage and clearing the doorway in a single bound.

"Ellie, Ellie!" he cried, rushing to his sister and hugging her tightly. She winced slightly from her bruises, but otherwise looked as happy as he did.

"Oh Erod, Erod I'm so glad you're Ok."

Teddery left the two to their reunion, and crouched next to Mortis.

"Ya alright yerself, big guy?"

Mortis grimaced and put a hand to his back. It returned with some blood on it, but far less than before.

"Yes. Dreg got me good, but it's healing. Slowly. I'll be fine. Right now we have more important things to focus on. Like getting you out of here."

Teddery nodded solemnly.

"Yar. Whole guild'll be after me if they work out what 'appened here. Don't worry; I thought up a plan while I was out in the woods. Recon I'll just take this 'ere carriage and go further west. The guild 'as spies everywhere, but it'll be a few weeks before they work out where I am. And that should be plenty o' time for ya to…" he paused, gulping slightly, "for ya to do what ya gotta do."

Mortis looked at the thief leaning over him, surprised that he'd already predicted the demon's future agenda. Then he nodded.

"Yes. It won't take longer then a few weeks, that I'll guarantee. In the meantime, you look after them," he gestured towards the two siblings, who where now in a mixture of tears from being united, the death of their father, and the whole ordeal the night had brought them.

"Yar. No problem. Always wanted kids o' me own," he grinned. He got up and prepared to head outside. "I don't think the 'orses need a driver; they seem pretty well trained, but maybe'll I'll just guide em for awhile anyway –"

Mortis caught his arm and held him firmly.

"How did you know I could feel?" he asked flatly. "Or more importantly, how did you know I _would_ feel? You put a lot of faith into something that neither of us knew for certain could happen."

Teddery just smiled at him.

"Ya know last night, when Dreg gave Zac that slap and ya almost killed him for it? Yer were defendin' your teacher. Yer were defendin' a friend. No, more than a friend: family." He knelt down again so he was at eye level. "Tha's love, Mortis. To ya, Zac is family, and whether ya realise it or not, yer already were feeling. It just took a small… push, to point ya in the right direction."

He stood again and headed for the door.

"Now git out of me carriage," he grinned, "I got a long trip ahead of me."

* * *

They made it to where they were going, Mortis heard later on, and went on to live out their lives as normally as an ex-thief and two orphaned noble-children could. He never felt the desire to seek them out; the knowledge they were safe was enough to give him comfort.

When he returned to the house that Zac built, early the morning after the raid that went bad, he was surprised to see his teacher still awake and waiting for him. He looked grave, ashen, as if he'd been up all night worrying. The flush of relief that passed over his face when Mortis walked through the door was confirmation of that fact.

"Ah, you're home lad! How'd it go?"

Mortis paused for a long time, completely unsure of where to start. The part where Jake turned rogue? Or back at the beginning, with the rain and the carriage being late. As it turned out, once he found a way to start, he didn't stop, and the whole tale was spilled to his old friend within an hour.

Zac nodded slowly throughout, his fingers peaked neatly under his chin and resting on one knee. By the time it was over, Mortis was unnerved to see neither surprise nor anger on his teachers face. Zac simply sat quietly, sorting through his own thoughts.

At last he looked at Mortis's face, and he was smiling. Not a forced grin, or that strange, twitching half-smile that comes before one bursts into tears. Really smiling.

"Morty, you've done better then I ever thought you could have. I have to admit, my faith in you wasn't as strong as I would have liked."

Mortis allowed his surprise show. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"What? What on Sanctuary are you talking about?"

"Your final test, me lad, and you passed with flying colours."

Mortis raised an eyebrow. Zac waved it away.

"Yes, I know it sounds corny, but I had to see if all the time I spent talking to you had actually made things sink in or not."

"You… you mean you organised this? All of it?"

"What? No of course not! I had no idea how things were going to pan out. I did, however, know the guild has been slowly disintegrating, rotting from the inside out. The thieves who I worked with back in my day have all retired and been replaced by younger, newer men, who think there's now harm in beating up a defenceless traveller or taking advantage of the odd woman here and there. In short, I believe the time of my thieves' guild has come to an end. No longer do they rob for the challenge, they've just become a pack of common thugs."

Zac paused long enough to stretch his arms and lean back in his chair.

"Now, I've been teaching you the ways of man for a long time now, and I don't think there's much more left for you to learn. So I figured; why not kill two birds with one stone? I've been wondering from the day we met whether you could truly leave behind your Hellish traits of kill, flay and slaughter, and develop into something better. Some_one_ better. Someone who can feel, who has his own beliefs and morals, and can know right from wrong."

Mortis still looked unconvinced, and slightly confused.

"But how did you know something like this was going to happen on last night's raid?"

"Jake was known for having a loud mouth, and this time I guess it was the death of him. One should never announce the crime one will commit before it comes to pass." He chuckled softly to himself. "Laddo, when I sent you out last night, I knew one of three things might happen. Firstly, you might stand idly by, unconcerned and unfazed by Jake's evil doings. Second - Heaven forbid - you might actually join in. Or thirdly; something inside you might shift just enough to set you on a path, one I've been trying me very hardest to push you along since our lessons began."

Mortis frowned and shook his head sadly.

"But I don't know. I don't know what I feel, let alone what I believe in. How can I follow a path that is concealed to me?"

"Just a matter of time. Your beliefs will develop as you do. Just give it time. Now," Zac leaned forward eagerly in his chair, "I believe you have a job to do."

They talked long into the day, for both knew it was the last time they would do so. Zac revealed every secret watering hole, every dark cave the thieves used to hide. All the inner workings of the guild were laid out in Mortis's mind, and he found himself absorbing the information readily and eagerly. Zac described 'the cleansing' in great detail, so by the time they were through, Mortis knew the name of each target and had a description to match.

Before he left, Zac told Mortis how his actions in the coming weeks were going to create a legend within the minds of the common people. Tales of the dark beast who slew over half a thieves guild would spread like wild fire, and from there he would always have enough work to keep his body sharp and his mind even sharper. Not to mention pockets full.

The teacher, believing his student ready beyond a doubt, left him with only a few words of wisdom:  
"Listen to your feelings, follow that evil sensing nose, and never take a job if it don't feel right."

* * *

And so the cleansing began. One by one, the dishonorable thieves were punished for their crimes, and Mortis came to realize more and more what his true purpose was. No longer did he serve Hell, or merely himself as he had done the past few years. He would help others, if he could, and be the hand of justice that was so often absent in a world ruled by men.

He was by no means perfect; even the strongest willed man can have trouble holding back his fury, let alone a demon who once knew nothing but the endless drive for destruction.

He was the Dune Hunter, he was Demon. He was assassin, and most importantly, he was Mortis. There had never been one like him, and may never be again. He was going to make his time last, one contract at a time.

Of Zac… he heard later the old man had taken up traveling like he'd done when he was younger. Mortis never saw him again, but he knew – he _felt_ – that that particular man's final days had not been wasted.


	14. The Palavers Part 4

A deep growling made him open one eye slowly. For a second, Mortis wondered if some dark creature had slipped into the room with him. But then he felt his stomach shudder, and realised it was just his body's cry for food.

He sat up in the crib and sighed. It was hard to siphon through ones memories, but some how he felt better for it. Elated and renewed. He stretched and grimaced as another shudder rumbled its way through his abdomen. Gods, how he'd kill for a steak.

Mortis strode to the door and opened it, peering momentarily into the hallway to see if anyone else was about. No one was. In fact, the whole boat seemed eerily quiet, aside from the gentle creaks that came from the slow rocking motion of the waves outside. He saw blackness through a porthole at the far end, and realised exactly how long he'd been in his half-dozing mind journey. Everyone else was probably asleep.

Padding as quietly as he could down the swaying corridor, he found the door to the kitchen and tested the handle. Unlocked, thankfully, but It gave an awful, mournful creak when he tried to push it open. Mortis bared his teeth, expecting a face to pop out of a bunk room any second and enquire about his movements. He really didn't feel like dealing with anyone – any _human_ – at the moment.

Taking a breath, he gave the door a fast push, and was rewarded with a loud but brief squeak. The kitchen lay before him, ready to divulge its glorious bounties of salted meat and wine. His mouth was already watering.

Stepping to the ice box – an ingenious device, apparently kept cold by some kind of trick, or spell, the captain knew, and Mortis had yet to study – and opened the lid. Inside was packed with dozens of sea dwellers; fish with frozen eyes, pleading with him for their freedom. He could almost here their tiny voices, simply saying "we need more room!" Five crabs, hunched in the corner, would probably have been apt to agree, if they could, and the eel's impression of an icicle was close to flawless.

Grinning with a predatory, but rather unnecessary, eagerness, Mortis reached in and grabbed a large silver fish, biting the gut off it in a single motion. He spat it out almost instantly, disliking the cold, crystallised flesh that was now melting on his tongue. He tossed the rest back into the box. Seafood was never his forte anyway. He slammed the lid and turned to the shelves, nose scanning the room for something solid, red and satisfying.

After minutes of pawing through the cupboards and numerous containers sitting on the shelves, he began to believe that perhaps they'd only stocked enough for the trip, and the sailors had been hungry these past few days. He punched a large white bag of powder in anger, and if fell from the shelf, exploding on the ground. Mortis grinned, considering that suitable punishment for the chef. Let him clean it up; maybe next time he'll stock the kitchen properly with enough meat for everyone.

A small sneeze stopped him in his tracks.

All thoughts of appetite departed in a second. Mortis whirled, and studied the room. The bag of flour lay where it fell, fine white grains still floating in the air. However, the powder on the floor had been disturbed. Mortis bent and studied the tiny footprints, consisting of three-clawed toes, and followed the direction they had come.

It was another cupboard. Smaller, and made of steel. Here was where the meat should have been stored, but the way the door swung listlessly back forth, open to the world, suggested that contents had already been raided. Mortis leant in and sniffed, detecting the salt and beef almost instantly. But there was something else in there too. Something he'd smelt before. He picked up a half chewed piece of gristle and smiled.

"Well," he said aloud, "looks like we have a stowaway. Now where could he have gone?"

Mortis remained crouched and gazed casually around. The creatures escape was far from hard to follow; such is what happens when one runs through a white substance and then trails away into the dark. The assassin could have spotted the floury claw prints a mile away, but, wanting to enjoy the hunt, he decided to play the game a little longer. Crawling on all fours, he began to head towards the hiding hole he knew the stowaway now occupied.

"Hmmm… let's see. Could he be in _here?_" Mortis said, flinging open a set of drawers. Some mouse droppings rolled around in surprise, but other then that, only musty air greeted him. He moved on a bit more, pausing in front of another small cupboard.

"How about… _here?_"

The owner of the droppings actually dwelled inside this hole, and the rodent gave Mortis a vengeful glare before scurrying away through an escape burrow. The demon grinned, and moved to the wine barrel where his prey was no doubt quaking with fear by now.

"Well… he couldn't possibly be… _here_!"

He shoved the barrel aside, and for a second saw nothing but blackness. Then something small, red, and very fast lunged out. Mortis fell back on his ass, as razor-sharp claws slashed in front of his eyes. He felt the creature's weight on his chest, and quickly grabbed it by the scruff of the neck.

"Calm down there! I was merely playing. You're safe."

"No! Let me go! Put me down this instant! You will hurt me! Just like Master did!"

Mortis sat up and smiled sympathetically at the familiar as it dangled from his hand, swinging and scratching for all it was worth. The poor thing looked ready to die of shock, which, Mortis knew, small creatures did have the capability to do. He quickly tried to calm it.

"Easy little demon, calm now. Calm. You're safe. Ease your flailing heart."

The familiar thrashed for a few more seconds, then slowly lost its voracity and began to relax. Its tiny black eyes stared into Mortis's face, the chest rising and falling from its exertions.

"Please… please don't hurt. I hungry. Didn't mean to eat it all."

Mortis drew his mouth into a thin line and observed all the scraps of meat that lay behind the barrel. He looked sternly at the little creature in his hand.

"Well, I am annoyed that you ate all the food. But I've gone for longer then this without a meal. I'll live." The familiar swayed slowly back and forth, seemingly content to do so now the danger had passed. "But you must tell me why you're here."

"Master… Master abandoned me," the familiar said sadly. "Before he go through the portal. Said he had no use for me anymore; hit me with his stick when I asked if I could go anyway. He said he'd leave without dispelling me, and I should be grateful enough for my life."

"Ahhh," Mortis said, unsure of what else to add. "… So… is your appetite satisfied?"

The familiar stared at him oddly.

"Yes… for now."

"Are you tired?"

"Well… not very."

"Good," Mortis said, standing up, "then you can come to my cabin. It's been long since I've seen another demon, and even if you aren't a true Hell-born, I'm certain you have much to offer in discussion. I'm very eager to hear of your creation; let us talk for awhile, until sleep comes at least."

He headed for the door of the kitchen, still firmly holding the creatures neck.

"Err… could you… let me go?"

"What, you think just because I haven't seen one of my kind in so long I've forgotten how they think? I'll let you go when you're safely locked in my room and the portholes are closed, my little friend."

The familiar sighed and relaxed fully, resigning itself to the palaver ahead. What else could it do?

* * *

"Ok," Mortis declared after settling himself into a position that was comfortable on his crib, "let's start from the beginning."

The familiar sat perched on Braca's stool - which had been dragged close to the crib - eagerly chewing a fish Mortis had acquired on the way out of the kitchen. The tiny red beast seemed fine now, more at ease with the bigger demon that had captured it. Beady black eyes peered at Mortis over the scaly flesh in its mouth.

"Start? How?" it said, mouth still bulging.

"How about your name. Did your Master call you anything?"

The familiar put the fish on the stool for a second, chewing and looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. It furrowed its brow, no easy feat for something with scaly leather skin, and spat out a bone.

"He call me 'Idjit' sometimes. Sound like that anyway." Idjit returned to his fish.

Mortis smiled, repressing a laugh, and continued.

"Ok. Idjit. That suits fine." He paused long enough to let the familiar finish its latest mouthful. "How were you created?"

Idjit wiped his mouth and threw the fish unceremoniously on the floor. Then he sat so his legs were sticking out in front, and he rested on his arms. His tiny red wings flapped casually behind.

"It hard to explain. I don't have words for it."

"Is there any way you could find them?"

"Yes," Idjit said almost immediately. "We can use the mana."

Mortis sat up in his bed. He hadn't expected anything like this.

"The mana? What do you mean? Explain."

Idjit thought for a long time.

"You know how Master talked to you way out in the desert? Without words? In your head?"

"Yes."

"That's the mana."

Mortis waited patiently, but Idjit didn't continue. In fact, he was eyeing the fish again.

"Alright… you're saying he could use this 'mind talk', this…" he paused. What had Zac called it? "This… 'teller-pethy', because he could use the mana?"

"Yes. Everything has the mana. But not everything can use it. Master had to give up piece of his soul so he could."

"But you just said we could use the mana. Wouldn't we have to do the same?"

Idjit suddenly burst into laughter, rolling on his stool and holding his feet comically. Mortis felt like swatting him, but suppressed the urge.

"For big, old demon, you not know much," Idjit said at last. "Or maybe… maybe you just never been told? Master study all this, you see, so I learn very easily."

"Learn what? What don't I know?"

"All demons can use the mana," Idjit said simply. "Demons born with it. I saw you use fire when you fought Master. Where you think that come from?"

Mortis didn't say anything for a long time. He stared at the palm of his hand, then the back of it, then the palm again.

"Ok, little mana-born, I'm listening."

"All demons can use the mana. Master believes maybe angels can too, but he not sure cause he never seen one. 'Heaven is not a realm we can Summon from, Idjit," the little familiar said in his beset mimic of the Summoner's voice, "for what we bring forth could end up being far worse then any demon we've ever seen.'"

Mortis shivered. For some reason, the idea of that made perfect sense, yet he hadn't the slightest inclination why.

"Human, too, can use mana. If they born with it. Some can use it for magic, like control of water, fire, air. Other use it to fight with their bodies better. Other's…" Idjit paused and lowered his voice, "some can raise the dead. Me seen. Very scary."

Mortis raised an eyebrow. He'd heard of the necromantic tribes and the 'miracles' they could preform. The Hell Lords had the power to do it too, but he'd never witnessed a human do such an act.

"Could your Master do it?"

Idjit shook his head.

"Not very well. Master not born with mana, see, that why he had to sacrifice soul. He gain much power, as you saw. He could use 'teller-pethy', summon fire and ice, as well as demons from Hell realm. But he only able to bring back life for short time. Few minutes. Then the bodies collapse again. You can only bring back life once, he says."

Mortis nodded. Maybe humans could do it only once, but he'd seen Hell's denizens do it as often as necessary. The end results left a lot to be desired… but sometimes a fighter is needed _now_, while a thinking, able bodied demon mightn't be as important in the future.

"Do you know any magic beside fire making?" Idjit asked suddenly.

Mortis thought for a second, then displayed the palm of his hand.

"Watch," he commanded. Idjit did so, staring intently.

"Now blink."

Again, Idjit obeyed, doing a deliberate scrunch eyed blink. Mortis called in a piece of chain with a strange metal bit on the end, and when the familiar opened his eyes, he smiled with pleasure.

"Ooohhh! Very clever! And that's a shiny trinket. Can I look?"

Mortis immediately closed his palm and held it defensively to his chest.

"No. It's a charm, given to me by my teacher… my 'master' here in Sanctuary, before I left his home. I keep it with me always."

He raised the chain and flicked the metal hoop at the bottom. A ring inside it spun in random directions, creating a spherical shape that existed yet didn't. Idjit eyed it greedily, but stayed seated. Mortis vanished the chain and settled back once again.

"So, I believe we were going to start at the beginning? You said the mana, and we got side tracked. Explain again how we can use the mana to 'find the words' you need to describe your creation."

"Ok…" Idjit started, struggling with his thoughts. "Ok, I try to tell process best I can." He sat up on the stool, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes. "First, do this."

Mortis sat up and mimicked the familiar's actions.

"Now what?"

"Now, think of blackness. Black, empty space. Big… and black… and empty. It dark… and far away. Send your mind there. Concentrate…. Go… to empty space……. And wait for me there…"

* * *

Idjit's voice droned on for a long time; never changing its tone or speed, just a rhythmic chant designed to relax. Yet, when Mortis pushed the pessimistic thoughts from his mind and really began to concentrate, he felt the change almost immediately.

It started out as a feeling of weightlessness. His whole being began blur, become soft. He wanted to open his eyes and see if he and Idjit might be levitating, but he decided against this. As nice as the feeling of elevation was, there was a silent but sinister warning, lurking somewhere in the back of his mind, and he knew the state they were in was not wholly safe.

Then came extreme vertigo, as if gravity had tripped over its own oversized feet and was taking the world with it. Mortis spun and rocked, aware also that he was moving fast in an unknown direction. His body – or at least, what he _thought_ was still his body – became streamlined, flying head first down a path that was neither a path nor a tunnel. Space and time are hard to perceive when you've been robbed of every sense you own.

Suddenly, Mortis hit a wall. He didn't bounce or feet pain when he slammed into it. Yet there was a barrier, perhaps a net? As it were, the surprise of colliding with something in this fast and weightless state made him open his eyes, and he was greeted by nothing but blackness.

He blinked, and turned around; something he found he could do quite easily. It was like being in water, but without a sense of pressure. It was like being in air, but without any of the smells and wind currents that accompanied it. Mortis tried to 'swim' through the blackness, but succeeding only in preforming a strange dog-paddle while seemingly not moving anywhere.

Finally, he gave up, and 'sat' in the darkness. Idjit said to wait after all. Mortis could feel the beat of his heart in his chest, feel the blood pumping in his veins. His chest rose and fell as if it was breathing air, but everything was fake. Touching his own skin yielding nothing; neither the flesh on the arm he touched, nor the tips of the fingers that did the touching registered they had done anything at all. Not numb: numb was a feeling.

In truth, Mortis imagined this is what it'd be like to be dead.

Idjit appeared beside him. No 'pop', no flash of light. He just appeared, floating in that same odd way Mortis was. The familiar looked at the bigger demon and smiled.

"_Hello, Hell-Born cousin."_ Idjit's voice was calm and smooth, and somehow deeper then it had been before. There was a subtle knowingness both in his words and on his face.

"_Hello, my little Mana-Born friend," _Mortis smiled back. His eyebrows raised and a look of surprise crossed his face. He hadn't used words for that, never even opened his mouth. Idjit nodded.

"_Telepathy is the only form of communication you can use in the mana. Spoken word does not exist here."_

Mortis, not really believing the familiar, opened his mouth to test it… and nothing came out. It was an odd thing to speak without speaking. The sentences were on his lips but he couldn't hear them being said. It was like this… place, ate them before they had a chance to be born. Or perhaps, they never existed in the first place, like Idjit said.

"_So this is the mana? Interesting… why is it so dark?"_

"_The mana is many things. This particular part is but an empty space; a clean slate on which to scrawl or create. Like a stem cell in the body of a growing foetus, this part of the mana has yet to find its purpose."_

"_Is it just me, or have you suddenly climbed a dozen or so rungs of the intellectual food chain?"_

Idjit smiled and took hold of his feet; a typically childish action that did not suit the new - and eerie - intelligence he now possessed. He began to do a slow, floating back flip, wings pushing with ever so gentle flapping motions.

"_I am born of the mana, therefore, when I am here, I am one with it. I know what it knows; it flows through me like breath."_

Mortis nodded thoughtfully, and then felt content to just drift and think for awhile himself. It was peaceful here.

"… _You said earlier that every demon can use the mana. I gather that is because we are part of it? And man as well?"_

"_Everything is part of the mana. The mana is the beginning. From the tiniest plant to the largest sea dwelling creature."_

"_If that's so,"_ Mortis continued, _"why is the mana not flowing through me like it is you?"  
_

Idjit had finished his back flip. Now he was starting on a forward tumble, still holding his feet.

"_A reasonable enough question, and one within your rights to ask. "Everything is born of the mana", as I said, but in truth, they are born from another being. Plants come from seeds. Man comes from the womb. Demons… well, not even you know how you and your kind are spawned, only that something births you, and the festering pits you mature in act as the surrogate mother."_

"… _Alright, I think I follow you so far. You're saying that because we're brought into the world by another physical being, our bond with the mana is lessened?"_

"_Yes. The 'parent', whatever it may be, acts like a channel to bring the new life in, but in the process much of the original connection is lost. Much like radio waves passing through an electrical –"_

"_I haven't the slightest conception of what you're talking about there, so please don't continue. You'll only make things more confusing then they already are."_

"_As you wish. In short; you were born through an intermediary device. Your connection with the mana is weak, diluted. I was summoned directly from the mana, therefore, my bond with it is still strong."_

"_I'm glad that is settled."_

They floated on, and Mortis was suddenly aware that the darkness was fading. It was beginning to change; the total blackness seemed less defined, more like a smudge mixed with grey.

"_Your original question was 'How were you created?' We came here so I could find the words to answer." _Idjit drifted close by Mortis's head, almost sitting on his shoulder. It seemed whatever laws shaped this place kept them from touching. "_But in fact, I can do better. I can show you."_


	15. The Palavers Part 5

The blackness vanished, and was instead replaced by a beautiful milky blue. It was vast, spreading for as far as Mortis could see. Small, brightly glowing lights floated around them. They were perhaps only the size of a large pebble.

"_It's… it's beautiful!" _Mortis thought with awe. _"So peaceful… so calming. I feel… at home."_

"_You would. This is your original home. For as many lifetimes as can be imagined, you've left and returned here. Death in Hell, death in Sanctuary; it doesn't matter. All life returns to the mana, ready to be reborn once more."_

"_And these floating lights? They look like stars."_

"_Look closer."_

Mortis did, and marvelled at what he saw. Each light was a tiny glass orb, and inside was a life. A tiny creature, going about its merry away, enjoying the blessing, the gift the mana had bestowed upon it. He saw men, he demons. Some orbs were too bright to see into, and he assumed they were angels. Others contained a flower. More still, beetles or wolves. He was floating inside a world – no, a _universe _– oflife. He could find no thoughts to describe it.

"_This is truly amazing. Can I… can I touch them?"_

"_You may try, but you will have no effect. This place is not real, just a projection of my memory. The real part of the mana like this is forbidden – _extremely _forbidden – by such as us."_

Mortis reached for an orb anyway; inside a rabbit sat, chewing on some roots. As he watched, the rabbit flinched and looked around, just in time to see the talons of some predatory bird snatch it around the middle. The rabbit gave a single squeal, silent to Mortis but he could see its tiny mouth shrieking, and the orb popped.

Mortis's finger had been millimetres away from the speck at the time, and he pulled back quickly, thinking perhaps he had done it. Idjit simply shook his head.

"_Watch, if you will."_

Mortis did. He watched the tiny, almost invisible pieces that had once made up the orb, swirled around in the blue. They drifted lazily for awhile, seemingly content to dance where they were. Then slowly, slowly they started to flow into each other.

One by one, the pieces joined together, forming larger specks that then went on to join others. At last, the orb was made whole. It was dark within.

"_What now? Is it dead?"_

"_Watch,"_ was all Idjit repeated.

The orb slowly began to change colour, from black, to red. And suddenly orange light filled it. Mortis squinted, trying to see what was forming. The orange faded, and was replaced by the face of a man. He seemed to be looking down from above, smeared in blood, but smiling. He dabbed his equally bloody hands on a rough bandana wrapped around his head, and pulled back a bit. Mortis could make out wooden walls and a fireplace behind him.

The man retrieved a sharp looking instrument and turned back to the source of the orbs vision. He bent closer, made one swift motion, and came up holding a bloody cord. Then he laughed.

Mortis couldn't here the laughter, nor the words that came afterwards, but years of watching targets from afar had honed his ability to read lips. This man; this ragged, bloody man, was clearly saying:

"It's a boy."

Mortis pulled back from the orb and sighed silently. In the space of a few minutes, he'd seen a life end, and one begin. This was all a bit much for him right now, and seemed a very long way around answering a single question.

"_So this is where you were drawn from? Summoned by your master."_

"_Yes. But there is more."_

"_Oh?"_

"_Haven't you ever wondered why the art of Demon Summoning is condemned not just by Heaven but by the Hell Lords also?"_

Mortis remained quiet. He couldn't say he'd ever stopped to think about it, really. One would assume Heaven disapproved because bringing demons into the world of man gave Hell an advantage. Perhaps Hell condemned it because that was one less fighting soul in their ever swarming armies. Either way, it seemed like another answer dodge.

"_No, and I can't say I'm that interested."_

"_But you should be! Watch now, and you will see my last moments in the place we all at some point call 'home'."_

Before he'd even finished speaking, a white tear appeared in the milky blueness; a horrid, jagged gap that expanded in front of their eyes. Light poured into the mana, and the tiny orbs responded in a way that was both alarming and heart wrenching.

Like the mind of an earthworm, these orbs didn't seem to think, but like the worm they sensed "pain". The light was pain to them, and they wiggled away, further into the mana, like tiny frightened children that had no idea why they were being punished. Mortis watched the plight of the orbs, hearing nothing but sensing panic and fear.

Suddenly, a misty apparition appeared from the rip. It was a ghostly hand, sitting open a long, snake like arm. The arm stretched out, reaching for the closest orbs, reaching with undeniable purpose. The orbs tried to wiggle faster, but to no avail.

The hand caught one and held it tight, doing nothing but that for a few seconds. Then it rolled the orb between its fingers, bounced it in its palm, and finally threw it away. The abandoned orb slowed its flight a few feet (if that's how space could be measured in this odd place) from the interloping limb, and once again resumed its single minded struggle to retreat.

The ghostly hand and its snake like arm, meanwhile, continued their selective harassment. The hand picked up another three orbs, tossing all aside, until finally it found one it liked. It reacted immediately when it touching this orb, going from the pale ethereal blue to an instant bright green.

The fingers wavered eerily with excitement, before snatching the orb fiercely and shaking it. Before Mortis could blink, the arm retracted into the rip, taking the hand and small orb with it. The rip closed as quickly as it had opened, and all was blue once more. The orbs stopped their retreat and resumed the blissful floating they had enjoyed perhaps since time began. Mortis stared, opened mouthed, at the freakish display that had just occurred. He was both unnerved and disgusted.

"_What the _Hell_ was that?"_

"_The will of my old master," _Idjit replied. _"And the orb: me, unfortunately. I can only imagine I was enjoying a life somewhere else before his treacherous hand snatched me away from it. We the summoned have no recollections of our previous existence, and it is a source of great sadness for us."_

The blue mana began to fade, and was replaced by an area that was sparse and grey. The orbs still floated about, but very few. There was a feeling of loneliness here that Mortis found overwhelming.

"_What is this place?"_

"_Another mental projection. I've never seen this part, but the mana flowing through me now is showing me it quite clearly. This is an area where Summoners over the centuries have 'over-grazed'. Like a shark that comes back to a feeding ground to often without letting the prey have time to rebuild its population."_

"_I'm beginning to see what you're implying here. Summoners aren't just calling in creatures from other worlds; they're calling them directly from the mana. This is a dangerous practise I assume."_

"_Indeed. As you saw earlier, the 'souls' are self sustaining; living in an endless cycle of life and death eternal. Outside interference pulls them out of the mana completely. Sadly for creatures like myself, this means we will never be able to return to it. Once we die in the mortal world… we die forever. Hence why I was always so fearful of master dispelling me."_

Mortis listened in silence. There was no further question in his mind regarding the damnation of the Summoners. They were not only interfering with the natural order of Sanctuary, they were interfering with the natural order of _everything._

"_Is there a way to stop this? _Do _the orbs repopulate? How many Summoners of this calibre have there been, or still are?"_ The questions rolled out in an unstoppable tide. Idjit seemed unfazed.

"_They can be stopped. But only via the actions of others. The mana is defenceless. It relies on the ones it gave life too to keep it from harm."_

"_In other words, someone has to kill the Summoner."_

"_Correct. The soul orbs do repopulate. But it takes many more millennia then you or I will live to see. And there have been few Summoners able to do what you have just seen. There may be more in the future, but at the moment, my master is the only one."_

Mortis felt a tension he didn't even know he was feeling drain from his body. His apprehension over the safety of the orbs was surprising.

"_A thought comes to mind; many humans, and demons too, have the ability to raise the dead or summon spirits to their side. Does this harm the mana?"_

"_When a life dies, the orb shatters, as you saw. Though it may seem only minutes to us when it is splintered, it is a limitless amount of time for the being within. During this point, it can make a choice: be reborn as another entity, or return to their world in the form it was last, as a bodiless spectre. If they choose the latter, they are free to roam as they wish, anywhere they wish, for as long as they last. The drawbacks are that they can never taste, touch, smell, or be seen by another living creature. _Unless_ they are helped."_

Idjit paused, letting this all sink in. Mortis was cross legged now, floating lazily as always.

"_The men and demons that can summon the spirits to their sides are merely giving these wandering entities flesh. They cannot be sustained for long, but for the time they last, they are real enough. Necromancy is the process of reanimating a lifeless form. They have no soul. They are puppets to preform their raisers every whim."_

"_Then nobody can truly be revived?"_

"_If the spell is preformed fast enough, it might be possible for the soul to be snatched back before it reaches the mana. Before the brain has time to die. This would be limited by the condition of the body, the strength of the caster, and the willingness of the deceased. Though… I won't go as far to say true resurrection has never been preformed. Some beings have been strong enough to defeat the odds. I believe you met Radament? He was quite a work of art, I must say. Still dead as ever, but he retained some of the basic memories. It took my master months to perfect the spell."_

Mortis's face darkened at that ancient evil's name. For the time, he had forgotten about Lut Gholein. He resented Idjit for reminding him.

"_Well, if what you say is true, there isn't much to fear at the moment? Your master is the only Summoner left, and he's… gone?"_

"_Gone from the worlds as we know them… but not far enough to be forgotten. And now comes the tricky part. I hope this doesn't go too far beyond you."_

Idjit straightened his body, and the mana suddenly returned to it original black state. Mortis felt uncomfortable here compared to the pleasing blue he'd seen a second ago. Idjit poked out a finger and pointed to an empty point, somewhere in the blackness.

"_Pay close attention. This will be difficult."_

He slowly drew his finger in a circle, and a trail of blue was left in its wake. Mortis marvelled at the glowing hoop. Idjit pointed and looked at him.

"_Sanctuary."_

Now he made another loop with his finger, to the upper right side of the blue circle. This time, a red circle appeared, not quite touching, but very close.

"_Hell," _Idjit said.

Finally, he moved to the left of the red hoop, and began another. This one was yellow, golden. When he was done, the three glowing rings where perfectly formed into an upside down pyramid shape. None touched, but all were within a breath of doing so.

"_Heaven,"_ Idjit ended. He floated up beside the rings and looked at Mortis. _"These are the worlds – the dimensions – as we know them. Three separate universes, existing next to each other, but never melding."_

Mortis nodded. So far, this odd geography lesson wasn't that hard. He thought the imp wasn't giving him enough credit.

"_Go on, I'm learning."_

Idjit did a quick series of lines between the red and blue circle.

"_These are the pathways. Portals, man calls them. They are common between the worlds of Sanctuary and Hell."_

"_Why are there no paths to Heaven?"_

"_There is only one way into Heaven,"_ and that was all he said.

Idjit now pointed his finger to the middle of the diagram, the black space between all three circles where nothing filled. There, he drew a pink diamond. As Mortis watched, it slowly began to rotate, and as it did, the three circles went with it. Orbiting it like a vultures on a kill.

"_What is that?" _Mortis asked slowly.

"_The pinnacle. The balance. The guider. The pearl. What ever you want to call it, it is what keeps our three universes separate and aligned. Without it, there is no telling what could happen. However," _Idjit made a dismissing gesture, _"that is talk for another time. I will get to the point I'm trying to make."_

Now he drew one final circle. This great silver ring enveloped the entire of the other three, diamond inside. The instant Idjit finished it, the remaining space that wasn't within the other four shapes, filled with sparkling blue light. It twinkled and flickered. Mortis could make out millions of dots swimming around. It was magnificent.

"_The mana?"_

"_The mana," _Idjit nodded. He placed his finger on a tiny speck within the glittering blue, and suddenly the diagram began to grow. It grew till the rings were larger then Mortis, larger then a lake, larger then the horizon. It kept on expanding and growing, and the two demons found themselves flying towards the place Idjit had pressed. All the time, the little mana-born continued to talk.

"_There was one Summoner, one so powerful, so ignorant of the forces he was playing with, that he defied both the Lords of Heaven and Hell. He found a way to isolate a piece of the mana, take an entire chunk and cut it loose from the rest. His name was Horazon."_

Mortis blinked. He had heard that name before, though at the time it meant nothing. They were deep among the mana again now, flying towards what looked like a giant crystal sphere. They were going very fast, and as the sphere grew closer, Mortis began to grow nervous. Were they going to smash straight into it? His logic told him that was a foolhardy thought; nothing in this place was real. His eyes told him different, however.

Though he'd convinced himself he would be safe by the time they hit, he still flinched. They passed through the strange sphere, and appeared within an extraordinary place. Here, the milky blue mana still floated, and so did the soul-orbs. But there was something else. Something man made.

"_This,"_ Idjit gestured, _"is Horazon's safe haven. The Arcane Sanctuary. A place neither Hell or Heaven could reach."_

Mortis gaped at the structure before him. It twisted and turned in all directions, defying gravity in impossible places and looking down right insane in others. Mortis guessed this Horazon person was not of his right mind anyway; he'd have to be mad to challenge everything that ever existed. He followed the spiral staircases with his eyes, before feeling that horrible vertigo again and squeezing them shut.

"_Did you ever come here, Idjit?"_

"_No. This is another place the mana is showing us through me. It hates this place. It is like a grain of sand caught in your eye; irritating and painful."_

"_Are all these soul-orbs trapped here?"_

Idjit reached out sadly to one of the golden floating balls, his hand passing right through it.

"_Yes. All trapped. This is a Summoner's paradise. Here, he has access to as many souls as he requires, can take his pick from a million or more innocent lives. And this is where my master has 'gone'. He is far from harm, but causing irreparable damage to the force that gives life to all. We can but pray that he will be stopped, and maybe this cursed place destroyed."_

Idjit looked more then a little depressed being here, so Mortis thought it time to leave. They did.

* * *

They were back in the black again. Idjit floated beside the glowing diagram of the circles with the diamond inside. Mortis's head felt swelled from all the new information he'd gained. Next time he'd think twice before asking how something was created.

"_I apologise for taking you on such a vast and informative trip. I would have been content just telling you where I came from… but… but the mana... It suggested I show you everything… well, almost everything, and I agreed. It is possible you may need this knowledge in the future… but for what reason I don't know. Neither does the mana. It just…"_

Idjit trailed off, a troubled look on his face. The little demon couldn't explain it, but Mortis was fine with that. Let his life take him where it may.

"_I thank you. Both… of you. I guess. I believe I've seen more then any one being would get to in their lifetime. It's been… well, amazing really."_

Idjit smiled.

"_Guard your knowledge well. Your role in this universe may as yet be unknown… but a higher purpose you will serve."_

Mortis felt the blackness begin to weaken, and struggled to stay with it.

"_Wait, will you remember any of this when we return?"_

"_Yes, some,"_ smiled Idjit, "_But I won't have the capability to talk about it. Oh how I hate having such a tiny brain."_

The darkness was definitely dissipating, and Mortis felt suction dragging him back to reality. He spared one last glance at the strange, glowing circles, floating among the pools of glittery blue and the pink diamond within. Then he was flying backwards, his eyes squeezed firmly shut.

He was looking forward to firm ground beneath his feet.


	16. Contract 4 Part 1

**Contract 4 - Mage of the Old Blade**

Mortis awoke slouched in his crib. He felt drained, but strangely elated; it's not often one gets to see the place of your true birth. He sat up and stretched his wings, filling almost half the width of the cabin.

Idjit lay on his stool, flopped back in a picture of serene laziness. He was snoring softly, a string of drool snaking out over his lips and almost down into one ear. Mortis smirked and gave the stool a gentle nudge with his foot.

"Wake up, you. You're the one who took me on that crazy trip; you shouldn't be allowed to sleep in."

Idjit made some soft grunts, rolled over on his side, and promptly fell off the stool. Mortis couldn't help but chuckle as the familiar bounced once off the wooden floor and came up in a stunned daze.

"Oooohhh…" the little demon moaned, holding his head. "Mana always give me such a head hurt."

"I agree. That was more information then all my teacher's lessons combined. But it has explained a great many things to me. The world of man seems clearer now… in fact, I think I better understand Hell as well."

Idjit, now standing groggily on his feet, had spotted the defrosted fish on the floor. He eagerly tottered over and dove into a post-mana meal.

"'Ish good," he sputtered through mouthfuls of gizzards. "Glad me can help."

"Yes…" Mortis mused. He crossed his legs and put his chin in his hand. So much to ponder in such a short amount of time. And one phrase in particular, something Idjit had said just before the end…

_"Guard your knowledge well. Your role in this universe may as yet be unknown… but a higher purpose you will serve."  
_  
His role? What could Idjit, or the mana, have meant by that? To Mortis, the idea of being destined for anything other then survival and assassination had never even crossed his mind. The future seemed like a far away and mysterious prospect, lurking on the fringes of his thoughts, and he'd always preferred to live for the moment.

Idjit, gnawing on the now almost bare fish, eyed the bigger demon mulling over his existence. He wasn't afraid of being hurt anymore, but he'd already been betrayed once recently. Now Mortis had his knowledge, Idjit feared he might be discarded, like his previous master had been so quick to do.

"So… um… what doing now?"

Mortis's stony concentration broke for a second, and he focused on the familiar.

"Hmm? Oh, I have a new contract..." He got up and peered out of the porthole at the murky dawn light. They had almost arrived at Kurast; a dark line of land covered in a dense - and somewhat foreboding - jungle was gradually drawing closer. It wouldn't be long now.

"My employer should be here soon, actually. I'm not sure what he'd think of you, so perhaps you should -"

Before he could finish the sentence, there was a brisk knocking on the door. Mortis started, and then gestured in a 'speak of the devil' manner. Idjit's reaction was very different.

The small demon froze mid bite, his eyes wide and wings sticking almost straight out. His nose was quivering: Mortis couldn't tell whether it was with excitement or fear, but a second later it was blatantly obvious. Idjit dropped the fish and took off around the room, making a high pitched squealing noise.

"Idjit? Idjit, what in Hell are you doing?" Mortis hissed. There was another soft knock on the door, and a muffled voice drifted through.

("Mortis, it's Braca. We have to discuss you're new contract, open up.")

Mortis glanced at the door and then at the hysterical familiar. The little demon was still hurtling around the cabin, crashing into the walls and ceiling. He suddenly spotted the porthole and made for it.

-CRASH-

The familiar bounced off the glass and back onto the floor, stunned. Mortis was there in an instant and unlatching the porthole. The glass had cracked badly from the impact, and was bent slightly out of shape in the middle.

"I don't know what's gotten into you," he hissed as he snatched the smaller demon up by the neck and shook him, "but if you can't control yourself, get out!"

He thrust his arm through the window and into the cool sea air, releasing the familiar outside. Idjit fell out of view, squealing all the way.

Mortis sighed. What on earth had caused that sudden change in the little creature? He had more questions to ask, dammit, why couldn't Braca have waited just a little longer? Another, louder knock, turned his attention to the door.

("Mortis! What's going on in there? You're wasting time; open this damn door")

Mortis gave a silent snarl and took a step towards the door way, just as a soft beating of wings returned to the open porthole behind him.

"He not who you think, he not who you think!" the chirping voice of Idjit called. Mortis looked over his shoulder and saw the familiar, still wide eyed, hovering just outside. He hurried back and stuck his head through the window.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't know, don't smell right. I can't be here, or he hurt me, I know it!" Idjit turned and began to fly towards dark jungle trees of the fast approaching Kurast.

"Find me again!" Mortis called. "We have more to talk about."

With Idjit rapidly becoming a distant speck, Mortis strode surely to the door, unlocked it and swung it open. A somewhat annoyed and red faced Braca stood outside.

"About time," he growled, and stormed past the big demon. He began to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. Mortis watched the odd man through squinted eyes, his own arms crossed firmly over his chest. Braca was attempting to make his wandering look casual, but it is hard to hide body language from an assassin at the best of times.

He was looking for something.

"Hmph," Braca snorted quietly. He stopped in the centre of the room and stared firmly at Mortis. "I heard noises. Was there someone else in here?"

Mortis's face changed to a lazy eyed look of surprise.

"Someone else? Like who? I doubt any of the sailors would be partial to a late night chat somehow. And besides, where would he go?" He gestured around the room. "Do you see anyone?"

Braca snorted again and turned to the window.

"And that?"

Mortis shrugged.

"Latch got stuck. It made me mad."

The man was quiet for some time, studying Mortis's features. Finally he scowled, clearly unsatisfied, and began to fish around in his suit pocket.

"Here's your damned contract," he snarled, pulling out a folded piece of paper and thrusting it in the demon's direction. Mortis reached out slowly and took it.

"I gather the payment is the same?"

"Half," Braca said abruptly. Mortis raised an eyebrow, but the man dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Read the contract; this one should be no challenge. You don't have to kill anyone, and therefore my employers deem it unnecessary to have such a high reward."

Mortis raised the contract and hooked a nail underneath the fold to break the seal. He was interested to see exactly what his task was this time… but something made him pause. Braca was still staring at him in that displeased and annoying way.

"Is there a problem here?" Mortis asked. To his surprise, Braca seemed to bristle.

"You know full well the conditions of your employment," he said, pointing an accusing finger. "If you have been consorting with outside sources regarding your contracts…"

Mortis had had enough of the small man's foul demeanour. He threw the paper forcefully onto the crib and stood at his full height, hands clawed at his sides.

_"No one_ was in here. Why have you become so paranoid?"

"Because!" Braca bellowed. He strode, unfearing, towards Mortis until they were almost face to chest. "Because fraternisation with outside sources could jeopardise everything! Not only are you putting your own contracts at risk, you're putting myself and my employers in potential danger. We must not be discovered. Humans do not take kindly to groups that seek to interfere, even if that interference benefits them in the end."

"For the last time, I have _not_ been -" Mortis paused. Humans?

-WHUMP-

The big demon had the man by the front of his suit and had pinned him against the wall, much like the second time they had met in the inn at midnight. He brought his face up close to Braca's and growled.

"What do you mean 'humans'?" he asked.

Braca was surprised, but showed no signs of fear.

"Excuse me?"

"You said 'humans do not take kindly', as if you were not part of their race. What did mean by that?" Mortis heard Idjit's warning, chirping inside his head, and he narrowed his eyes. "What are you?"

The man scowled.

"Your delusions are getting pathetic, demon. If you value your work, I'd think twice before accusing me of -"

"You _better_ come clean with me, Braca, or so help me I'll -"

It all happened so fast, Mortis never actualyl saw what happened next. Did Braca hit him? Was some kind of spell involved? All he knew was that one second he was pinning the man against the wall, the next it felt like a blast of energy had sent him flying across the room. He hit the opposite wall hard, cracking the wood, and slid down to the floor.

Mortis sat there, dazed and wondering why he could feel nothing in his right arm; somehow it had been paralysed from the shoulder down. The rest of his body, his head included, throbbed with a dull ache. There was static in the air, and the room seemed to hum.

Braca was straightening his suit and looking grim, his mouth twitch ticking away uncontrollably. He walked over and knelt down beside the groggy demon, staying just out of reach from any slashing claws.

"I'm sorry, Mortis, but I believe you've become too unstable for future work. I'll be discussing it with my employers, but this _will_ be your final contract." He picked the folded paper off the crib and threw it on the demon's lap. "Complete it, and return to the docks for your payment. We will then go our separate ways. Goodbye."

Braca stood, dusted his shoulder, and walked out. Mortis remained where he was until he heard the click of the door closing, then his stomach gave a turn for the worst, and he fell on all fours to vomit.

* * *

Mortis cursed loudly as he stepped onto what appeared to be a firm tussock and sunk through up to his knee. It was hard to find environments he liked in this world; if it wasn't hot and dry, it was too damn wet and humid. He pulled his leg from the mud and trudged towards the river in order to clean it off.

When he left Hell, the jungles of Kehjistan had been his arrival point, and consequently the place on Sanctuary where he'd learned to hunt and survive. Yet he still found it a difficult land to travel in. The heavy canopies of the ancient trees hung low and thick, meaning flight beneath them was extremely difficult. Flight from above was even more pointless; an endless green sea obscured all the secrets beneath.

Even though the city of Kurast would be easier to find from sky, Mortis had chosen to walk. There were eyes in that place he did not want to fall upon him: Mephisto, the oldest brother of the Three, lurked somewhere in his prison beneath the Tower of the Zakarum, and Mortis could still feel presence. The last thing he wanted was to alert an entire city of the Hell Lords zealots to his arrival.

He finished washing his leg in the fast flowing water and stooped to collect a handful to drink. It probably wasn't the safest in the world, but he still recovering from his shock on the boat and needed the energy. Mortis snarled to himself, feeling the tingling in his right arm where Braca had done… whatever it was he had done.

He couldn't recall having ever been assaulted by something so powerful… at least not in Sanctuary. Even Brent's holy fire hadn't affected him so badly. There were no doubts in his mind now: Braca was not human. Idjit knew it, and now Mortis had witnessed it firsthand. That, however, brought up new questions. If he wasn't human, what was he? And what of these mysterious employers of his? Were they human? Was their meddling really in the peoples 'best interests', or did they have some other agenda?

It didn't matter, Mortis had decided. As Braca had said, this was his last assignment. Once it was over, he could forget all about the strange man and his mysterious masters, and get as far away as he could. Disappear somewhere even they wouldn't be able to track him, off the maps. He'd had enough of humans and shady organisations; he just wanted to be away from it all.

Mortis sighed and leaned against a fallen tree, listening to the sound of the trickling river and chirping insects. Peaceful. It may have been a slimy, bug infested cesspit, but it wasn't without its charms. He held out his hand and called in the final contract.

'One more read,' he thought to himself. He was in no hurry to get to Kurast, after all, and he wanted to be sure he made no mistakes. The rough paper unfolded easily in his hands, revealing Braca's bold print for the last time.

_"Contract 3 - Mage of the Old Blade_

As you know, Mephisto corrupted the once glorious city of Kurast long ago, starting with the Council guarding his prison tower. With them twisted around his bony fingers, his influence spread, working its way from the Tower's Travincal and into the lower areas of the city. The people were slowly driven insane with hate, lusting for nothing but death and the blood of human sacrifice.

Yet, despite this grim threat, resistance still exists. The Bazaar's of Kurast, a small section of the cities furthest outskirts, heralds the home of the last remaining unspoilt citizens. They cling to the ruins of their past while their mages and priests work on a way to reverse the Hell Lord's influence, but their hope pales further with each passing day. Their only form of protection is a ward spell, created by an ancient and sacred relic, which keeps the rest of the evil in the city at bay.

The "Blade of the Old Religion" or "Gidbinnin" is an object of incredible power, but very few people know how to unlock its full potential. At this point in time, only two have such capabilities: two High Mages by the names of Sorum and Ormus. As their anagrammatic names might suggest, they are brothers. Together, they guard the blade and keep the ward spell active, for if it were to ever break, the bazaar would be overrun in a second by the zealots of Mephisto.

Though they are brothers, their abilities differ somewhat, and here is where your task begins. Sorum considers himself the main guardian, and therefore channels most of the blades energy. However, his power is waning. My employers have monitored the ward spell for some time now, and witnessed a steady decline in its protection qualities. It is only arrogant pride that keeps Sorum from passing the task to his brother, and he is putting the lives of everyone he defends at risk by doing so.

You are required to seek out the brothers in their temple, and 'persuade' Sorum into stepping down. Assassination is not necessary here; we have reason to believe he will be convinced relatively easily. But, of course, if it comes down to it… what must be done, must be done.

Our information suggests that the priests are imperatively close to finding a cure for Mephisto's hatred, so by instating Ormus you will be providing them with the time they need in order to complete it, and perhaps once again restore their city. It may seem like an easier assignment then your previous ones, but we ask that you take the upmost care with its execution. The citizens may know of you here, but nothing like the Lut Gholeinians: if they see you threatening either of the brothers, they will not hesitate to attack.

Gain entry to the bazaar, seek out the High Mage brothers, and persuade Sorum to step down. The last bastion of Kurasts hope depends on you. Once again: do not fail.

Braca."  
  
Mortis saw no reason to suspect this contract, and it almost pleased him that there would be no killing. Or at least, that's what he hoped. He never was the most charasmatic of beings.

A strange bird call suddenly brought his attention back to the jungle, and he instinctively crouched, wings spread. Kurast was not the safest place to be caught unawares in. Thinking it best to keep moving, Mortis vanished the contract and pushed away from the fallen tree. There wasn't far to walk now, and if he could avoid stepping in any more bogs, he'd be happy. The gates to the city were just up ahead.

* * *

Had Mortis turned around at that point, he may have spotted the small, masked face, peeking out at him from behind a bush. But as it was, he didn't turn, and the mask snickered with relief. It quickly ducked down and began to stalk the big demon again, being careful to stay well out of view this time. This little creature had a task of his own.

_'First: follow the demon, follow the demon, follow the demon,'_ he repeated to himself, over and over. He didn't want to, but that's what he had been told to do. Apparently he had a 'notoriously short attention span', and 'must repeat each step constantly in order to remain focused'.

It would have helped if the small masked midget knew what those words meant, but he wasn't about to ask; he got the general idea. That man had been very scary with his big words and strange clothing. And he'd had shaken the midget until his teeth rattled inside his mask when he said he didn't want to do what the man asked. If he messed up, the midget knew he would not be left alive.

But then he smiled and thought about the offered reward. Mmmm… food, and lots of it. Bountiful food, running for its life through the jungle. It'd be fun just to hunt it down! Oh, he couldn't wait. Saliva was beginning to drip down from underneath his mask at the mere thought of it.

The midget scurried behind another tree and peeked around, watching the demon move further up the rivers edge. This wouldn't be too hard after all.

_'First: follow the demon, follow the demon, follow the demon…'_

* * *

-BANG BANG BANG-

Mortis pounded heavily on the great wooden gates of the bazaar. The stone archway that held them barely stood; cracked with age and crumbling in various places. If it wasn't for the ward spell, he would have simply flown over the gates and landed on the other side. But there was no chance of that.

The ward was incredibly strong, and Mortis felt a resistance just standing near entrance. It had allowed him to touch the gates, but he knew he wouldn't have been able to break through. He waited impatiently now for a response, swatting aside an insect that seemed far too big for his liking, and tried to think of what he would say when someone did at last answer.

He'd only been back to Kurast a few times in the past, and that had been before Mephisto had taken hold. Mortis didn't know whether there was anyone left alive who would remember him, or even if any stories remained. It was going to be a gamble, and he hoped it wouldn't be a dangerous one.

Finally, a small hatch opened in the gates.

"What?" The nervous eyes of a guard peered out, scanning the jungle. They almost bludged out of his head when he saw the big demon in front of the gates. Mortis smiled and stepped forward.

"Don't close the hatch. I'm not one of the Zakarum. I'm here to help."

It was all he could think to say, and he wasn't sure if it was enough. The eyes didn't move, however, only continued to stare at him.

"You're… you're the Balrog?"

Mortis was stunned. Did they really remember him? They still referred to him by his species, rather then his name, which meant they probably still didn't trust him. Though the Kehjistan's had cautiously allowed him into their culture, many harboured an inherit mistrust of anything not of their world, and believed demons did not deserve names. He had always been "the Balrog" here, no matter what he did for them.

"Yes," Mortis said, somewhat reluctantly. "I am the Balrog."

The eyes narrowed, scrutinising him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

"What do you want?" the guard called.

"I've come to help in your fight against the evil of Mephisto," Mortis stated. "I have important information for the Guardians of the Blade. I come alone"

The hatch swung closed with a click, and Mortis was left in silence.

'Blast,' he thought. 'Wrong move.'

A sudden loud buzzing filled the air, and Mortis felt the resistance of the ward shift. The spell had parted, like curtains on a window, leaving the gates undefended. Moments later, one side of the gates started to open with a rusty and mournful groan, and Mortis waited with a tense anticipation. The guard poked his head out through the gap and looked around, making sure the demon really was alone, and then pushed it open further.

"Greetings, Balrog. We welcome you. Our priests have been waiting eagerly for your return for some time now."

Mortis smiled with relief. They remembered him. They trusted him. That was one problem overcome. He made to step through the gate, but the guard held up his hand.

"First, I've been told to ask some questions of any who enter. I apologise for the inconvenience; it's standard procedure."

Mortis nodded.

"Ask away…"

* * *

In the bushes, Mortis's stalker watched the two talking with growing fear. They were standing in front of the gate. Right in front of it! How was he going to get in?

_'Second: enter the city, enter the city, enter the city…'_

But how? How? The midget was starting to panic, feeling the failure of his task and his own doom drawing near. He hopped from one foot to the other, his mask jiggling with each bounce. What to do, what to do?

Deciding it was worth the risk, the midget scurried closer, barely hidden behind a copse of reeds. So close. He could see now that there was a small - a very small - gap between the demon and the closed side of the gate. If he was fast, he might just be able to squeeze through. The human was focused on the demon's face, and the demon's back was to him. He had to try. After all, if the demon didn't kill him, the scary man would. And in much nastier ways, he suspected.

Taking a breath, the midget crept forward, trying to stay out of sight, and then made a dash for it.

* * *

"You may enter now," the guard smiled. He turned around and made room for the demon to pass. Mortis took a step forward eager to be inside.

Something brushed his leg. Just for as second, and it was so soft he barely registered it. He looked down in time to see something small scurry around the side of the gate and disappear.

"Wait," Mortis said, grabbing the guars shoulder. "Did you see that?"

"See what?" The guard enquired. Mortis lunged around the gate and peered about. There were some dense bushes spread along the wall, some small huts nearby, but that was it. Nothing. He sniffed and studied the ground. There were many footprints, but all were human. They were no good to him. And the only thing he could smell was a pile of unwashed garments in the nearby hut.

Mortis straightened and turned back to the guard.

"I'm sorry, I thought I saw something. An animal perhaps, but… I guess I was wrong."

The guard stared quizzingly at him, then shook his head.

"I didn't see anything, I'm sorry. Come, I will take you to the brothers."

* * *

The demon and the human walked past, and the midget held his breath. Had they seen him? Apparently so, but they hadn't come after him. The demon had sharp eyesight, but the midget had been quicker. Though… had he not chosen his hiding place so well, he probably still would have been caught, as the demon's nose was also well trained.

The midget waited until the two were further up the bazaar, and then burst from his hiding place under the smelly clothing. Blurk. Not the nicest place to hide, but it did the job. He kicked an undergarment off his ankle, and then looked to where the demon had gone. If he wasn't quick, he'd lose them! He made a dash for a nearby hut and pressed against the wall.

_'Third: Follow again, follow again, follow again…'_

He was very close now. So close. Mmmm… food. 


End file.
